by Maggie Humm
Lily glanced around the gallery. She could never finish Mrs. Ramsay’s portrait now. She must turn its face to the wall, try to be more commercial and not cling so hard to her French techniques—the bright colours, those geometric shapes. Painting animals would be unbearable, but she’d manage flowers and portraits. She should study a few now before leaving the Academy, to see how figures and space worked together. Modern portraits suggested a face by its outline, not the detail. Those student days where every sketch, etching, and painting had to reveal the whole meaning of life were a long way behind.
She strode past the war paintings, the faces of haughty, decorated lieutenant generals who were dead now. Officers died in much greater numbers proportionally than men of the lower orders she’d been told—for the first time ever, it seemed. There were plenty of officers in the hospital, although rank fell away in the rounds of operations and convalescence. Morphine abolished class differences. Morphine took care of anything. Crossing through Gallery VI, she noticed a group had gathered, chattering vociferously and pointing at a painting. Peering over the shoulders of the shortest spectator, she overheard a ruddy-faced gentleman proclaim, “Cocaine is ‘Picture of the Year.’” The group sucked in the air around them. More and more, paintings seemed to resemble newspaper articles in the Illustrated London News with their moral messages. Drugs and war both sold well. She stepped quickly past the men in their top hats, avoiding their glances.
At the end of the gallery, the crowds had thinned out with closing time almost here. The sunny day through the skylights had given way to an overcast grey, and even with the electric light switched on now, the room was sombre. The large gold-framed paintings held their own, but there were fewer spectators blocking her view, and the women’s lighter summer clothes made seeing the crammed paintings a little easier than if they’d been in winter’s heavy furs. In earlier years she’d enjoyed examining the stylish dresses and trailing colourful sashes, but today she was too exhausted, too shocked by Mrs. Ramsay’s death.
At the far end of the room, a tall, thin man in a black frock coat and top hat stood murmuring inaudibly in front of a painting. She stepped closer and watched him retrieve a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Mr. Ramsay was right in front of her. The long aquiline nose was unmistakable, although his face was more lined than the last time he’d walked into view that Sunday in the park. Was it two years ago or three? She stood completely stationary. Could he somehow have overheard the tea-table conversation in the courtyard and Hilary’s account of Mrs. Ramsay’s death? She felt a deep blush rushing over her cheeks. What greeting could she give without revealing a suspicious hesitation? She was completely at a loss what to say. If she talked as a friend with Mr. Ramsay and then turned to find Louis, Hilary, or Eliza behind her, she would be thought duplicitous, at the very least hypocritical. And what if he became angry? As she stared, unable to move, she watched tears running down Mr. Ramsay’s face into his bushy beard. Dreamily he wiped them as they touched his lips, seemingly unconscious of how he looked—a sad spectacle of an elderly man crying alone.
The banal greeting she’d tried to capture was left unsaid and instead she felt an intense pity. It had never occurred to her, sitting at the dining table in Talland House, that Mr. Ramsay, the domestic tyrant, ever experienced anything but anger, or he could know the deep sadness sometimes felt by ordinary mortals. But here he was, a bent old man looking at Flora Lion’s painting of her own mother, which Lily had always loved. It felt as if she were seeing him for the first time or seeing him as Mrs. Ramsay must have done. The villain’s mask had fallen off, and his face looked normal apart from the tears; the desolate figure needed comfort.
“Dear Mr. Ramsay,” she said, placing her gloved hand delicately on his arm, “I’m so sorry to disturb you at such a sad moment, but I couldn’t pass by without saying hello.”
The “dear” was unexpected, but something in his eyes touched her, surprised her into feeling tearful herself.
“Miss Briscoe! You are here!” Mr. Ramsay exclaimed. “I was thinking about us all at Talland House with my beloved wife caring for the children. It’s hard to believe you’re actually here.”
He bowed, removing his hat, and dabbed his face furiously with the handkerchief.
“I cannot tell you what feelings overcame me seeing this painting of a mother,” he said. “I must apologize for the ludicrous spectacle you see before you.”
Lily squeezed his arm more firmly. “I’m often emotional in front of paintings, Mr. Ramsay,” she said. Avoiding his eyes, she continued to hold his arm, waiting for him to rally.
“When I look at certain pictures resembling my wife,” Mr. Ramsay said finally with a sigh, “I see as with my bodily eyes the love, the holy and tender love she gave to us all.”
Should she talk about her memories of Mrs. Ramsay? How often she thought about her—almost as often as she remembered her own mother—but she feared he’d be too overcome by the confidence, and she was completely unprepared for further tears. It’d be far safer to be simple and brief.
“We all loved Mrs. Ramsay a good deal.”
She tried to speak calmly, without betraying any emotions, and gently turned him towards the painting, so they could transform into ordinary spectators. To cover his embarrassment, she began describing the picture to bring him back into the room.
“Miss Lion is so flexible in the way she creates shapes,” she said. “I admire her work a great deal.”
They were gazing at the painting, but she felt neither of them was in the Academy. They were both in the drawing room of Talland House, surrounded by Mrs. Ramsay’s choice of art.
“There is such an apt placing of notes, of strong colour against the black,” Lily continued, trying harder to distract him. “The effect is almost of a Tudor portrait.”
She cared little now for what Mr. Ramsay might think of her words, the specialist vocabulary; she needn’t hide her expertise any longer to play the dutiful woman.
“I envy you,” Mr. Ramsay said. “To know how to make people seem alive, to give them a life again inside a frame, what a wonderful skill.”
Although he’d been president of St Ives Arts Club, she wondered if he’d ever actually examined contemporary art. Faces without any detail were bathed in beauty. It was the sole way to capture the essence of Mrs. Ramsay, but she wouldn’t contradict him. He was too vulnerable today, as if a barrier between them had come down.
When she glanced up again at him, she caught the warmth in his eyes. The powerful love he obviously felt for his wife had transformed him. He seemed to be responding intuitively to the painting as much as she had. The expression on his face was more settled now; the tears had dried, but his eyes were brimming. What could she report to Hilary? She saw no dissembling, no falsity, simply raw sadness. History was never a simple black-and-white photograph, and there was so much to discover about Mrs. Ramsay’s death. The family couldn’t be divided into goodies and baddies like the children’s theatricals she’d watched in Talland House as Hilary seemed to want to. Mr. Ramsay bowed courteously again.
“I feel I may speak frankly,” he said, “since you have seen me so transparently unguarded today?”
Lily tensed, holding her bag tight in front of her, afraid the past few minutes between them were dissolving into air and Mr. Ramsay might divulge something too worrying, or too private in a public space. One of Hilary’s dramatic scenes shot into her mind, the picture of Mr. Ramsay locking the door of his wife’s bedroom behind him, refusing access to visitors or the servants. She tried to breathe calmly, gazing straight into his eyes. “Secrets are often in people’s eyes,” her mother used to say, but his were immensely sad.
“I return to St Ives in a week,” he continued. “The house needs awakening from its wartime slumber.” He managed a quick half-smile. “There were many repairs to undertake. But we’re almost all shipshape, and it would give me great pleasure if I might welcome you again to Talland House?”
Stunne
d by the invitation, she glanced down at her shoes as if everything would be clearer in their shiny surface.
“There are now spare rooms in the house, with Andrew and Prue’s deaths.” His voice trembled, low in pitch, and he rushed through the words. “You would have no need of lodgings. You would be such a welcome guest.”
Before she could reply, he held up a hand. “Please, let me continue. My reason for asking you is not altruistic, I fear,” he said. “It is a selfish request. It would please me more than I could ever convey if you would finish your portrait of my darling wife.”
The request startled her, but a glorious image of Mrs. Ramsay was already alongside them in the gallery, a golden light pushing away the horrors of the afternoon, and she nodded smiling, unable for a moment to speak.
“And do bring a friend,” Mr. Ramsay suggested, “someone who might share the days with you in St Ives. I wouldn’t dream of inflicting all our family comings and goings on you. I should very much want you to savour the clear Cornish air with a companion, so we wouldn’t impinge on your freedom.”
He seemed exhausted after delivering his request, as if he hadn’t talked or held a conversation with anyone for a long time.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Mr. Ramsay,” Lily said, and a look of relief swept over his face. “My painting Dahlias, which the Academy was so good to select for this summer exhibition, is of Mrs. Ramsay’s favourite flowers at Talland House, and I would love to finish her portrait. I’ll think about a friend too.”
“I will of course invite Miss Stillman,” he said. “I have her address somewhere at hand, so you will have your regular companion. But there is room for someone else.”
He gazed expectantly at Lily, as if eager to be surrounded by visitors. The change in his behaviour was extraordinary. Mr. Ramsay as a sociable man was certainly not expected, but here he stood before her, wanting more friendships—and with women. As Lily glanced at him, Mrs. Beckwith came into in her mind. Mrs. Beckwith’s calm, reasonable conversations could pacify any return of Mr. Ramsay’s former self, and it would be a tiny recompense for all her kindness and instruction in the pharmacy.
“I’d like my friend Mrs. Beckwith to come if she is agreeable,” Lily said. “She is elderly now, a widow, but knowledgeable about medicine, a trained scientist. I am sure you would find much to talk about together. May I invite her with your permission?”
Mr. Ramsay agreed and smiled. In Talland House he seemed to savour the drama of human relationships when he created his own. Comforted by their odd new alliance, she was overjoyed by the thought of seeing the house again. Mr. Ramsay could be a Jekyll and Hyde figure, but whatever might happen in St Ives she would closely observe his actions and use this new friendship to discover the truth about Mrs. Ramsay’s death. Not for Hilary but for herself.
She’d said to Mr. Ramsay she would buy the art supplies herself. He’d been considerate to ask. Ordering ahead to Lanham’s in St Ives would involve expensive telegrams, and waiting until she arrived would delay the painting, so she fell into the brisk business of London shopping.
Later, climbing onto a bus heading for home, she felt her years of crisscrossing London were a kind of triumph. What was the expression? “To know London is to know life,” or was it “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life”? Was it Samuel Johnson or Oscar Wilde? Her inability to remember the exact aphorism or to coin witty phrases always held her back from the quick rat-tat of dinner-table conversations and the Sloop Inn camaraderie, but to be in London, to be an artist, to stand free in front of canvases—it was a contented life, a life she’d never have thought would be hers, and yet she could experience it every day. By the time she reached Brompton Road and Father’s house, she felt ready to travel to St Ives.
VII
—
1919
ST IVES
IT WAS NEARLY DINNERTIME, WHEN THE HAZY PINK of the late afternoon seeped into mauve and Brompton Road filled with shadows. Lily sat back on her studio sofa, staring at the almost-filled trunk. Given the unseasonably hot weather predicted for September, the maid had suggested taking two broad-brimmed summer hats to St Ives. It was the right decision. Talland House itself would be cooler with its ill-fitting floorboards and windows, set so high up from the harbour. How much dust would the empty house have accumulated over the years? But Mr. Ramsay had promised it would be clean, “shipshape,” he’d claimed. Lily went down to dinner.
In St Ives, the cleaner, Mrs. McNab, watched soapsuds slide down the knives in her narrow kitchen sink. Life was getting one thing cleaned after another. On the road outside, a telegraph boy trilled his bicycle bell nonstop. Startled, she grabbed an old, raggedy tea towel. It was like the end of the war all over again—so many bells. Her cottage had one window obscured by the sink, so she hadn’t seen him arrive. She swung out in front of the boy, and he handed her an envelope and pedalled off without a word. Why hadn’t he waited? There’d be a good half-hour’s walk to reach the office so someone could read it to her.
The small telegraph bureau abutting St Ives’s railway station was sweltering in the late summer sun.
“I read the house name and the date, sir,” Mrs. McNab said, “but the boy went off on his bike too fast.”
Her arms lay on the counter, too fat for their sleeves. Only her face and shoulders were visible over the surface. The woman next in line towered above her.
“This counter’s too high,” she said, and held out the telegraph with thick sweaty fingers. It was as pink as her flushed cheeks and the evening papers on the forecourt. The clerk wiped his moist forehead and resettled the stiff braided cap. He took the now-damp telegraph, gingerly holding it between his thumbs and index fingers while he read:
“‘To Mrs. McNab, 20 August, 1919.’”
The paper fluttered as she exhaled in exasperation. “I know me own name,” the cleaning woman snorted. “It’s the words in columns I need reading.”
The clerk glanced up. Mrs. McNab’s lazy left eye was staring at the side wall, but her other eye fixed him sternly. He smoothed out the paper on the counter and continued:
“‘Family return in a week STOP Please clean all rooms STOP House servants arrive in four days.’ It’s signed ‘Miss Nancy Ramsay.’”
“Talland House’s been locked up all through the war,” she said. “It’ll be a nightmare to clean. I’m strong for a woman my age, but it’s a big house. And there’s the garden too. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Bast to help out.”
Ignoring her, the clerk had returned to tying up post parcels with rough twine, and Mrs. McNab stepped over to the door.
Outside, the sun was a white circle bleaching the sky, draining colour from the town. Her blouse was soaked back and front. She was parched. The Sloop Inn at the end of the harbour wall was five minutes away. She’d probably find Mrs. Bast there. Beer was cheaper if customers brought their own flagons, and Mrs. Bast always did. Mrs. McNab remembered Prue’s face puckering when she handed her the washing, panting after the long climb up to Talland House. Well, Prue was dead now and the house was empty. They’d clean it as fast as they could. She rolled into the inn.
The next day the cleaning women filled their zinc buckets at the kitchen sink.
“We’ll start at the top and work our way down,” Mrs. Bast suggested. “It lets the dust settle.” She glanced at her best friend.
Mrs. McNab nodded. Their brooms and buckets knocked the woodwork as the two women climbed laboriously upstairs. Water sloshed out, leaving a damp trail all down the staircase.
“A room isn’t a room without the family,” Mrs. McNab said when they entered the nursery. The four little beds were stripped of bedding, their mattresses sagging as if the children had risen for breakfast. She looked up and noticed the boar’s skull still attached to the wall with rusty nail heads poking through each nostril.
“At least the boards are bare,” Mrs. Bast replied. “They must’ve taken up the rugs before the war.”
The yello
w blind was faded to lemon, cracked half across. Mrs. Bast blew the dust away. “Best leave it alone in case it drops to bits. I’ll finish off here,” she said. “Why don’t you do the mistress’s bedroom?”
“Meet you in the drawing room downstairs for a rest when we’ve done upstairs,” Mrs. McNab said with a wink. “Last time we’ll be allowed in there once they’re here.”
Mrs. McNab drew back the curtains in Mrs. Ramsay’s bedroom. Dust danced in the sunbeams in a meteor shower. The old grey cloak hung on the door. The furniture seemed to be waiting for somebody or something. Had they left anything hidden away? A brush lay on the dressing table. She tried it through her thick wiry hair, but the tangles were too dense. The mistress’s hair had been smooth, a silky waterfall. It had come loose from her hat the day Mr. McNab was brought back to the cottage laid out flat on a plank—drowned at sea, and no more bodies found for a week. Mrs. Ramsay used to bring arnica for her fingers, all swollen with the net mending. She’d hugged her and brushed Mrs. McNab’s tears away.
“There’ll be no more net mending now,” she’d said to Mrs. Ramsay.
“You can do our laundry instead, Mrs. McNab,” Mrs. Ramsay had replied. She’d never forget the dear lady’s goodness. Better to wash than to be a house servant. She wouldn’t have to line up for prayers, although the Ramsays didn’t have much truck with religion.
Pushing the thoughts away, she first cleaned the windows. A strangely piquant scent lingered after she’d finished sweeping and washing the floor. She’d forgotten the dressing-table drawers. That must be it. Pulling out each in turn, she flung mouldy bits of hair ribbon and hairgrips into a sack and stopped. A little bottle lay amongst the last lot of ribbons. Was it alcohol? The label looked different, and she smelled the stopper. The rank, acrid odour wasn’t perfume either. Perhaps it was medicine and might be useful to someone. Putting it in her pocket, she decided she’d ask Mrs. Farrell. The London servants were arriving tomorrow. Mrs. Farrell would know what to do. She was a good, kind woman and always had a bowl of milk soup ready on the kitchen table for her. Sometimes there’d be bread and a piece of ham—home-cooked ham, of course. Mrs. Farrell was fussy. Mrs. McNab looked through the cleaned window. George was trimming the tall grass around the pond.
