by Maggie Humm
“I never finished my portrait of Mrs. Ramsay during that summer,” she said, trying to keep her voice light and looking into his face. “I cannot complete it without seeing her again, but I fear she may have disliked my style of painting?”
She spoke as calmly as she could. She wouldn’t tell him about Andrew Ramsay’s hurtful remarks or her sobbing at the station. Mr. Bankes would be deterred by an emotional woman, so she clasped her hands tightly together, glancing at him again.
“I have no memory,” he said with raised eyebrows, as if surprised by her question, “of any dislike Mrs. Ramsay may have felt. I was not party to every discussion in Talland House, but I saw no evidence of disapproval. Indeed, I witnessed her firm friendship with you and Miss Stillman, and her great admiration for you both.”
As a scientist, precise evidence meant everything to Mr. Bankes, and to have it spoken so clearly made it real, because he’d been a witness. Lily folded her arms as if to hug herself, completely happy for the first time since the last dreadful day in St Ives. The portrait was in her mind but free of any shadows, and she felt inside a beam of sunlight in Talland House garden.
There was a change in the air as they returned to London, a kind of oppressive damp refusing to rain. From the top deck of the tram, Lily watched a fleet of coal barges steadily gliding upriver. Coal would be needed if there was to be war, but in spite of that she sketched in her mind the sight of a bargeman on the deck with his head deep in a basin, trying to remove a week’s worth of coal dust. The tram clacked along into a world of billboards at each stop, shouting out messages at disembarking passengers, and the soft balm of Hampton Court began draining away.
It was August, and, as they changed from the tram to a railway train, her clothes felt tight and hot. The sticky heaviness of the weather hung about them when they finally reached the concourse at Waterloo Station to find crowds of people milling around and paperboys holding out newspapers with front pages declaring the King would be speaking soon at Buckingham Palace. Mr. Bankes swung his stick gently, trying to clear a passageway through the mingling, agitated crowd until, jostled by bodies on each side, he took her arm. It was difficult to breathe with the air full of voices clamouring about war.
“Permit me to call you a hansom,” he said. “I insist on paying the driver in advance for the fare. Tubes and omnibuses will be far too crowded for you to use this evening.”
“I’m very grateful,” she said, tired by the long walks at Hampton Court and by sustaining their conversations all day. The Times said England was certain to declare war on Germany by the end of the night. Would she ever return to Talland House now, see Mrs. Ramsay again? See Louis?
“At least the government has released the suffragette prisoners,” Eliza said, welcoming Lily to her house.
“About time!” Lily said. “It’s been three months since war was declared.”
At least for one evening she could enjoy the serenity of Eliza’s mother’s home, and she was grateful for the invitation to see her new paintings. She was amused to find Marie posing by an easel as usual, although her features seemed settled deeper in her face, as happens at seventy.
“I love your studio’s northern light, Mrs. Stillman,” Lily said, “and those classical busts are as fine as the British Museum’s!”
“It’s none of my making,” Marie said, beaming. “It is the genius of my architect, who created the beautiful arrangement you see before you. And, of course, my lovely artistic daughters give me such inspiration.”
Noticing Eliza blushing, Lily wished she would appreciate her artistic family a little more; everything the Stillmans had ever created together seemed somehow to loiter among the gorgeous furnishings. Envying the way in which mother and daughters could share their work and Marie’s exquisite home, she glanced around the studio. It was almost lofty and wide enough to contain Lily’s small mews home entirely within its walls, but she’d be content to assimilate for a while, fit into its untroubled life, loving the high windows with the light enclosing the room in the medieval past depicted in Marie’s work. Even the polished button chesterfield seemed to have a deep antipathy to change, and she found herself feeling a surprising delight as she stroked the brown leather.
The house thrust its treasures at visitors in places where she had to check carefully before sitting or standing. A chair could be the resting place for a Roman tile and no use for something as conventional as sitting down. Even leaning against a mantelpiece might disturb a studied arrangement of majolica plates and bowls. The absurdity of it all was amusing, and she felt cocooned, safe from London’s wartime bustle; Eliza’s comment about suffragette prisoners hung in the air, unattended by her mother and seeming not quite real.
Travelling out from London, with its public statues protected by hoardings and sandbags, to a world of rare objects made daily life seem a list of stereotypes: of war posters telling men to join up and women to knit soldiers’ socks. Whatever was happening in the centre of town appeared ugly compared to a house capturing the whole history of art in old-fashioned rooms, miraculously staffed by servants who hadn’t sought better paid jobs in munitions factories.
“Do stay to supper, Miss Briscoe,” Marie said. “Don’t worry about your day clothes. We rarely change now into evening dress. The war, you know.”
“Yes, you must eat with us this evening,” Eliza said, smiling at Lily, “there is nothing but khaki everywhere else.” She swept Lily up the grand staircase. “Let me put some of my jewellery onto your dress. We’ll pretend we’re little girls dressing up again.”
As Lily stood in front of a tall mirror in Eliza’s bedroom trying to decide which piece to wear, so many associations crowded into her thoughts. She wondered if Eliza would have face powder and rouge to supplement the precious stones, remembering her mother’s evening ritual for Father returning from work, and Mrs. Ramsay always asking her children to choose pieces of jewellery for her to wear for dinners. Turning towards Eliza, Lily realised it was time now to stop remembering every little detail, to stop always overlaying the present with memories, and she stood holding her head erect for Eliza to arrange a ruby and diamond necklace around her neck.
“You’ll relish dinner,” Eliza said. “Mama’s ordered julienne soup.”
“Knowing Marie,” Lily replied, “the chopped vegetables will look like a pointillist painting.” Sarcasm was new to her, and the piquant taste felt good, making her seem somehow more independent.
“And to follow there’s foie gras with quail,” Eliza said. “It’s ridiculously expensive, I know. Mama’s lifestyle can’t possibly survive in the war. But she tries.”
Lily smiled, standing back from the mirror, admiring Eliza’s jewellery, feeling the cold gems heavy on her hot neck until the idea that had troubled her sleep for several days returned. She had to speak quickly while she was alone upstairs with Eliza, before the thought could fade in the golden glow of gas lamps on rich embroideries. It was a decision to be shared.
“I’m going to train to be a nurse,” she said, glancing at Eliza. “No one can avoid this war, and I want to help the injured men, however much I despise the warmongers.” Lily kept her eyes on Eliza’s face, hoping she’d for once understand the seriousness of the plan.
“I agree. I want to nurse too. I’ll join you,” Eliza said. “We can’t shut ourselves away forever in ateliers with our well-upholstered furniture.” She smiled, patting the thick arms of her chair. “And we can’t paint all day long as if nothing’s happening around us. But do please wait before we tell Mama. She insisted a few days ago we three come to next week’s special lecture at the British Museum in aid of Belgian refugees. We can break our news to her more gently when it’s us together at the BM.”
“I’m so happy you’ll join me,” Lily replied, taking Eliza’s hand, “and I’d love to come next week. I miss the atmosphere of the Paris lectures, although it seems decades ago.”
Feeling over dinner she had in some ways come to understand Eliza more
in the past year than ever before, she’d glanced occasionally at her as if seeing herself in a mirror, paler, but not minding at all, not this evening at any rate. She was a spinster in her early thirties, and this would be all the dinner guests probably thought about her. It was true in its way, but soon she’d be independent of Father; she’d become a nurse. As she stood with the other guests, giving Marie her thanks at the end of the evening, Lily imagined Marie’s world of rich dinners and expensive objects disappearing, as if possessions weighed them all down and would now be discarded. She was already seeing herself as a different person.
A week later Lily, Eliza, and Marie trod carefully through the streets and squares of Bloomsbury towards the British Museum. Concentrating on each flagstone, one after another, was a familiar routine in the London smog, but this month the gloom was even denser in the blackout. Thank goodness her torch felt reassuringly heavy, with the war requiring them all now to carry one, street lamps being frequently unlit and public buildings not illuminated at all.
Shining a beam onto her feet, Lily remembered a similar image in her favourite childhood reading—A Book of Discovery, a much-wanted Christmas present, and a surprise to Mother her eleven-year-old daughter could be so serious, so interested in history. It was the illustrations she’d loved more than the history. The book opened on “the unrolling of the clouds,” in Homer’s time, with black rounded cumuli and a sky full of stars surrounding a tiny bright circle of Greek islands, and in each century the civilised world expanded again and again as the clouds diminished. London in wartime resembled Homer’s era, with dark skies crowding pedestrians together into little circles of light, and she smiled at Eliza and Marie as they all stepped carefully in unison.
“I lived in Bloomsbury when I first trained as an artist,” Marie said in her usual booming voice. “We saw every kind of activity. All the houses were divided into layers of families, artists, some even with brothels. I used to peek into the brothel windows at night.”
“A little bohemianism does no one any harm,” Eliza said, smiling across at Lily after an indulgent hug of her mother. “I’m sure we all agree?”
“What a fascinating story, Mrs. Stillman,” Lily said.
Marie seemed so at ease returning to her younger, adventurous self without embarrassment. Although she was seventy now, her beauty and statuesque posture made strangers’ heads turn as the women walked through Bedford Square, their hands tucked tightly into muffs against the damp, chilly evening, making Lily feel proud to be included in such a formidable artistic family, to be cared for. Before Paris and St Ives, she’d been far too young, too puritan perhaps, to understand how joyful it was to celebrate artistic life so flamboyantly. Now she felt more independent, the world seemed open to her.
When they entered the museum, the lecture hall was almost full and buzzing with conversation. Marie, as usual, was the focus of admiring looks, and this heightened Lily’s sense of inclusion, of sharing in Marie’s artistic radiance and friendship. The lanky man on the stage, his round glasses glinting in the lights, began an animated flow, every now and then pointing with a long stick to glass slides his assistant was placing in a magic lantern. She recognized his face, intrigued to see the slides were of the British Museum’s ancient pottery rather than his own Omega Workshop ceramics. Roger Fry ran his fingers through his thick, long hair as he spoke and seemed to improvise in front of everyone, buoying them up, stimulated by their murmurs of approval. He was an enthralling speaker whose deep, mellifluous voice kept everyone focused on Chinese vases. The spectacle of Fry in full blast must have seduced them into thinking pots by unknown artists were the most exquisite, most worthy objects they’d ever seen. Lily glanced across at Marie, impressed the older woman appeared to be concentrating deeply.
“How modern she is. Marie’s as interested in craft as in painting,” Lily whispered to Eliza, and Eliza smiled.
At last, displaying an image of one of his own bowls, Fry said, “The peculiar beauty of the turquoise glaze, ladies and gentlemen, was due more to a mistake in the firing than to any calculation on my part!” He sat down to enthusiastic clapping.
Someone at the rear of the hall switched on the lights, making him as brightly lit as his slides, and Lily was amused to see his bulging pockets, imagining them full of little antique treasures. Women rushed down the central aisle towards him, and he seemed so comfortable answering their questions, giving each a wide smile in turn. He reminded her of Louis, and she remembered how Louis would stop in midflow to smile and joke with the students. It was his smile most of all that made her feel the enchantment of art and the delight of being thought an artist; she was never as good as she hoped to be, but he made her think she could be much better. As the thought receded, it occurred to her, as a woman her age, most people would assume she ought to be married, but Louis hadn’t yet written. It came to her with increasing intensity again and again she had to stop thinking about him, knowing she could say she was an artist now if anyone asked, and marriage wasn’t all she had to dream about, even if she’d never forget Louis. Beneath the silkette from Liberty’s she’d chosen for the evening, bought because it reminded her of Mother’s, the idea about art was here inside her, intense and steady, and she could almost see her mother smiling.
Watching the charity workers moving from row to row holding buckets out for change for the refugees, she took a few coins from her purse, leaving a sixpence to buy a bun with coffee in an ABC café on the way home, but nothing more.
“We are so fortunate to be artists, are we not, Miss Briscoe?” Marie’s voice sang out.
Soberly dressed women sitting in front turned around, staring at them. Feeling her cheeks flushing, Lily nodded agreement, and Marie stood up, a multicoloured embroidered shawl thrown around her shoulders making her seem even more exotic.
“And now we need bodily sustenance,” Marie said. “Dieudonné and Kettner’s won’t admit us without evening dress, but the Tour Eiffel is more accommodating and quite close by.”
Lily frowned and clutched her thin purse. As if noticing her gesture, Eliza raised her eyebrows at Marie, glancing sideways at Lily, and Marie nodded. “And you must be my special guest, Miss Briscoe,” she urged. “Let me introduce you to the arty world of the Tour Eiffel.”
Relieved, and glad to be swept along with Marie’s arm curved into hers, Lily realised she was becoming as fond of her as she’d been of Mrs. Ramsay. To be taken up by two older women and offered family friendships without awkwardness meant everything, and she’d felt admired or, so it seemed, until the dreadful day when Andrew had said Mrs. Ramsay disliked her portrait. Now, feeling the warmth of Marie’s arm on hers, Lily allowed herself a momentary swagger.
“We’ll walk,” Marie said, refusing Eliza’s suggestion they whistle for a hansom. “The restaurant’s in Percy Street, close by, the other side of Tottenham Court Road.”
It was an adventure, an evening Lily would remember, walking in the blackout with such a famous woman artist. At Tottenham Court Road, as they stood waiting to plunge through the traffic, Lily glanced up, noticing the pediments of buildings had disappeared into a dark sky. Colour had drained from the city without the gas lamps to cast golden gleams, but although buildings were indistinct, Marie and Eliza’s friendship was like a security blanket keeping her warm and safe. She was lucky not to have a family member at the front or in shelled Scarborough. At least Giverny had been saved from the Germans, even if Monet’s water lilies were probably flattened.
When they reached the Tour Eiffel, an eye scrutinized them through a peephole in the door.
“It’s Joe, the waiter,” Marie told her. “The restaurant chooses its clientele carefully. Sadly, the war has brought dreary military men into the place. They are all clean-shaven except for their moustaches. I so preferred the artists’ beards and sombreros.”
As the door opened Lily experienced a dizzy, heady sense of occasion, of bustle and resonance, of an unusual rush of emotion as though the evening was like
a bubbling magnum of uncorked champagne. Marie might have been entering her own mansion as she swept them all in and ordered Joe to deposit their coats and muffs in the cloakroom. The courteous maitre d’hôtel escorting them to a table seemed already to be Marie’s best friend. When a waiter arrived with a little notebook, Lily gave an inexpensive order, wanting to be invited again, and placed a hand on Eliza’s arm. “I’m ordering one course,” she said. “I’m too tired to eat much. I feel full of the evening’s lecture.”
“Oh, please order a tiny entrée,” Eliza said. “Mama will.”
Glancing around the room, Lily could see them all reflected in the shining mirrors behind the velvet banquettes, sitting glittering at circular tables in repeated and diminishing spheres. She could almost taste the luxury, hear the rattling of heavy gold jewellery, smell the dense scent wafting from thick furs flung casually across the backs of chairs. Cigarette smoke hung in streaks above the tables, and women, whose expensive dresses spoke of servants and leisure, wore glamorous lace at their necks. A tall man, seated but wearing his wide-brimmed black sombrero, spouted lines of modern poetry from a book in his outstretched hand.
“The restaurant is home to a poets’ club. I forget the name,” Marie said, “so we may see exciting jinks. Sometimes one of them stands on a table to read out his new work. The maitre d’hôtel is very obliging.”
Lily wished her mother had lived long enough to see this exciting new world, sure that at Marie’s age, she would have been equally open to fresh ideas, to watching strange male poets reading aloud, and bohemian Londoners relishing the spectacle. Teatime at home, with Father at work, had often become a raucous mixture of arty guests, poets and painters together, discussing the latest show.
Marie leaned over. “So many restaurants have closed since war broke out,” she whispered to Lily, “and my favourite German restaurants were forced to change their names and owners.”
