by Rosie James
‘It’s mostly thanks to your copy of Mrs Beeton’s cookery book,’ Abigail said. ‘We had to adapt things a bit but they came out all right in the end.’
It was a perfect evening, and when they got to the vicarage the party was already in full swing, with everyone enjoying a glass of wine in the garden. As soon as Carrie saw them, she rushed over with Mark close behind her.
‘You’re the last to arrive,’ Carrie said, ‘and don’t you look gorgeous, Emily!’ Carrie glanced down at the trays the girls were holding. ‘Oh, thank you for these,’ she said, ‘I’ll take them straight in to the kitchen. Supper’s nearly ready. Mark – will you look after my friends for a minute?’
‘That will be my enormous pleasure,’ Mark said easily. Not in uniform, he was wearing a dark pinstriped suit, white shirt and blue tie, and he looked down at them all, smiling. ‘I can’t remember the last time all of us managed to be together,’ he said, ‘and although I have only seen Emily once before, she has become even more beautiful – and so grown up!’ He turned his attention to Eileen’s mother. ‘I hope you are keeping well, Mrs Matthews,’ he said politely.
‘I am very well, thank you, Mark,’ Gladys replied.
Just then, a man – also formally dressed – came up to them. He was very tall and dark-haired, and he was holding a tray of drinks. Mark glanced at him. ‘Oh thanks, Simon. I was just about to go and fetch those.’
Simon grinned. ‘Well, I’ve saved you the bother,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I realised that you couldn’t drag yourself away from this bevy of beauties – and who could blame you.’
‘This “bevy of beauties” happens to be Carrie’s very best friends,’ Mark said, introducing them each by name. Then he turned to Mrs Matthews and the girls. ‘And this is Simon Hill, my partner in crime in the regiment who – one day we hope – is going to be my best man.’
Presently, after polite conversation had taken place in the little group, Carrie came back to usher everyone inside. ‘Come on, supper’s ready,’ she said. ‘And later on I’ll introduce you to the other guests.’
In the dining room, it was a very informal affair as everyone sat down where they liked, and with Emily on one side of her at the table and Gladys Matthews on the other, Abigail couldn’t help noticing that Simon Hill had taken the seat next to Eileen and that they were chatting animatedly, their heads close together.
Despite all the shortages, the table was laden. There was cold chicken and fresh salads, and bowls of small new potatoes, with pickles of every description. And somehow or another Joan Waters had managed to make a magnificent pork pie (made with Spam, she told them later) which had pride of place in the middle of all the rest. And as the canapés were being handed around, someone said, ‘War? What war? What a wonderful spread, Joan. How have you managed to get all this?’
Joan Waters smiled. ‘Well, I spoke nicely to the butcher,’ she said, ‘but the salads and new potatoes are from the vicarage garden.’
After everyone had eaten enough, which included the pudding of fruit trifle and custard slices, Jonathan stood up, tapping the glass in front of him.
‘I have had strict instructions from my daughter that this is not to be a speechy event,’ he said, ‘but I know you will want to join me in a toast to Carrie and Mark. As most of you know, they were actually engaged some time ago, but unfortunately Mark couldn’t stay long enough for a family celebration, so we’re having that now.’ Jonathan paused before going on. ‘A few of you also know that Mark was missing in action for a number of months, and our relief and gratitude that he came home safe and well cannot be overestimated.’ Another pause. ‘We are living in dangerous times, and this war is not over yet, so we must make the most of every opportunity to be happy and glad about something. And my wife and I are very glad indeed, that Mark, one day, is to be our son-in-law.’
There was a unanimous roar of approval at this, and Emily, smiling all over her face, looked up at Eileen’s mother. ‘I am glad – aren’t you, Mrs Gladys?’ she whispered.
‘Very glad indeed,’ Gladys Matthews replied.
‘So help yourselves to the wine in front of you,’ Jonathan said, filling his own glass as he spoke, ‘and let us drink to Carrie and Mark – and the hope that their wedding can take place before too long.’
And Emily, leaning forward to reach her cocktail, which she had been gazing at throughout the meal, joined in with the toast.
‘Carrie and Mark. God bless them!’
Presently, all the guests were shown into the sitting room for their coffee, and Carrie immediately came over to where Abigail and Mrs Matthews were standing. Emily was curled up in a corner of the long settee reading the new book Carrie had just given her.
‘Here you are,’ Carrie said, handing them their coffee. ‘All freshly brewed!’ She glanced at Eileen’s mother. ‘Have you managed to speak to Uncle Maurice yet, Mrs Matthews? Look, he’s over there talking to Dad. I’ll ask him to come over and you can re-introduce yourselves because I know you’ve had many interesting discussions together when you’ve visited the gallery.’
Not long after, with Abigail listening politely, Mrs Matthews was talking to the gallery owner. ‘I’m very glad that you are still open for business, Mr Stone.’ He nodded.
‘Yes, thank goodness – we only closed for a week or so – although we’ve had a few very anxious moments!’ He turned to Abigail. ‘So, Mrs Wilson, you say that you’ve moved up from the country to live in Bristol? I trust that the awful raids haven’t put you off living here!’
Abigail smiled. ‘No. Emily and I love being in Bristol. And we have been most fortunate in living with Mrs Matthews and Eileen – an enormous piece of good luck for us.’
Gladys Matthews spoke up. ‘You may be interested to know, Mr Stone,’ she said, ‘that Mrs Wilson is an artist – and a very good one too. She has produced the most wonderful cards for us all. None of which will ever be thrown away.’
Maurice Stone raised his eyes and looked at Abigail. ‘Have you had training in the art world, Mrs Wilson?’
Abigail smiled. ‘No, but I might have inherited a little of my father’s talent,’ she said, ‘and he taught me everything I know.’ She paused for a second, hesitating. ‘As a matter of fact, I have brought some of his work with me this evening. I don’t know whether you would be interested in seeing it?’
Abigail felt her heart begin to race. How had she found the courage to actually ask that? But just before they’d left for the party, she’d put the precious packet of drawings into her handbag. Had the moment actually arrived when she might show someone, someone important, how clever Dada had been?
Maurice Stone nodded politely. ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Wilson,’ he said. ‘I am always interested in seeing something new.’
With her hands actually trembling, Abigail took the wax packet from her handbag. Then she opened it and carefully laid out the pictures in three rows side by side on the small table in front of them. She glanced at Maurice Stone.
‘Time has passed, of course,’ she said, ‘because my father did these while in uniform during the Great War, and as you can see, he’s dated them all with time and place. He explained that they kept him from going mad because when he was drawing and colouring, he could shut out the noise of battle – if only for a few hours while he was off duty.’
Gladys Matthews stared down, thoughtfully. ‘You’ve never shown us these, Abigail,’ she said. ‘They are exquisite, aren’t they?’
There was silence as Maurice Stone studied each picture carefully. ‘These are beautiful scenes, well constructed,’ he said slowly. Then after a long moment he added, ‘And look at this one!’ He leaned in closer. ‘There in the corner is what we might at first glance see as a stricken bough on that tree, a dead branch. But look – it has been subtly formed into a cross, a distinct cross. And, that dark smudge there, vaguely discernible on the ground beside it looks like a mound of earth and debris half covering something. I think …’ Maurice Stone narrowed his eyes. �
��I think it could be just part of a tin helmet almost sunk into the ground.’ He stood back, clearly moved. ‘These are not just pictures, they are war pictures, each one produced at a time when the artist is suffering the hell of battle … and the knowledge,’ Maurice added, ‘that this could be the last thing he ever does.’
Abigail was stunned at his words. She had never noticed that the branch could really be a cross, nor that part of a soldier’s uniform might be there. Poor Dada, she thought, poor dear Dada. Whatever had he gone through all those years ago? But he had left her clues, and she was looking at them now.
Maurice Stone continued to finger the pictures carefully. ‘Look at this. Your father must have done all these during the Battle of the Somme, 8th July 1916 … 20th July … 20th August … 1st September … 18th October … all signed and dated. But nothing after that. Because November saw the end of that particular battle, though nobody won,’ he added. ‘What a terrible waste of young lives – on both sides.’
Maurice Stone seemed unable to go on for a moment. Then, ‘Lovely, these pictures are,’ he added. ‘The way the darkening clouds outlined above warn of an approaching storm – of evil weather – of tragedy.’ He paused. ‘This is masterly work,’ he added quietly.
And Abigail’s heart sang. She’d always known that Dada had been an inspired artist and colourist. And now, someone else, someone with knowledge, had just said so.
Presently it was time to go home, and Abigail went over to where Emily was still on the settee, nearly asleep. ‘Come on, we’re going now, darling,’ Abigail said. ‘Is that a good book?’
Emily yawned. ‘Yes. I’ve nearly got to the end.’
With Eileen now having at last joined them, they were just going to the door to wait for the taxi which had been ordered, when Maurice Stone caught up with them.
‘Mrs Wilson,’ he said, ‘would you allow me to show your father’s paintings in the gallery? I sometimes have a memorabilia exhibition, and they would be absolutely perfect for that.’ He paused. ‘I know they would be of enormous interest, not just for their perfection but for their provenance. I found them deeply moving,’ he added. Before Abigail could reply, he went on. ‘As a matter of fact, I have already planned a memorabilia exhibition in a few weeks’ time, and, if you are agreeable, I would include your father’s pictures.’ He smiled. ‘They would have pride of place, and I would show them off in a way which I know would please you, Mrs Wilson. And naturally I would not offer them for sale, because I realise they are very precious to you.’
Abigail was so stunned that she was afraid she might burst into tears. At last, Dada’s pictures were going to be seen by others! Because they deserved to be! She knew they’d been right to come to Bristol! She looked up.
‘I would be delighted to lend them to you,’ she said simply.
‘Well, thank you,’ Maurice said, ‘but I hope you would accept a small fee for the privilege of exhibiting them. They are a remarkable – and touching – piece of history,’ he added.
Then, after a moment, ‘Might I – dare I – ask if your father made it back home, Mrs Wilson?’ Maurice Stone said quietly, and Abigail smiled wistfully.
‘He did, thank you, but he had been gassed during his time in France and his lungs never recovered. He was twenty-nine years old when he finally lost his last battle,’ Abigail added sadly.
Chapter 31
On the last Saturday in August, Abigail and Emily, together with Mrs Matthews, Eileen and Carrie, took a taxi to Queen’s Road to visit the Stone Gallery. It was opening day of the exhibition, and Abigail admitted to feeling nervous. Would Dada’s pictures really be as successful as Maurice Stone had thought? And was it because she had loved her father so much that she had put such value on them?
Then she was cross with herself. If Maurice Stone thought they were worth showing in his gallery then there could surely be no doubt that they’d be well received by the public.
Abigail had never been to such a place before, but when they entered the discreet building and were shown into a dimly lit room on the ground floor, she felt a wave of pure excitement flow through her. This was … this was a special place, for a special purpose.
When they went in, Maurice Stone came forward to greet them. ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said affably, with a special smile for his goddaughter. He looked straight at Abigail. ‘I have to tell you that my advertisement for your father’s exhibition received more interest than I have had for a very long time, and I expect that there will be small queues every day! But come forward and take a look, Mrs Wilson. I am personally very proud to be showing your father’s pictures. They will be exhibited today and the whole of next week.’
With her heart now anxiously beating like a drum, Abigail followed him over to a tall stand right in the centre of the room. And as soon as she saw the pictures, framed and professionally mounted on a dark background, with subtle lighting ahead and around them, she knew she was going to have difficulty in not shedding a tear.
For several minutes, they all just stood there gazing, and Maurice Stone, seeing the expression on her face, said quietly, ‘I knew you would be happy at the result, Mrs Wilson. And I am more than happy.’
Staring up, Emily tugged at her mother’s arm. ‘Are these the ones your dada did, Mummy?’
‘Yes, I told you we were coming to see them, didn’t I, Emily?’
Emily nodded, still looking up at the pictures. ‘They are all very pretty … Will you teach me how to do it, Mummy?’
Abigail slipped her arm around Emily’s waist. ‘Perhaps I will, one day,’ she said.
Gladys Matthews spoke. ‘They look quite wonderful set up like this, don’t they, Abigail? You must feel very proud of your father.’
‘I didn’t realise we had such talent living under our roof,’ Eileen said, nudging Abigail. ‘Like father, like daughter.’
Carrie had been silent all this time as she’d studied the pictures and the caption beneath each one. ‘They make me want to cry, Abigail,’ she said, ‘because it is so sad when you think what your father was going through when he did these.’ Carrie blew her nose. ‘All those young soldiers should have our undying gratitude for what they did on our behalf during that deadly war.’
Maurice Stone nodded. ‘My feelings exactly, Carrie,’ he said. ‘And these pictures are a testament to that time and to the bravery of the artist and his comrades. I doubt I shall ever exhibit such exceptionally touching things again.’
And later in bed that night, with Emily sleeping peacefully beside her, Abigail whispered silently, ‘I promised myself that everyone should know how clever and kind and thoughtful you were, Dada, and I’ve done it. Another of my wildest dreams has come true.’
The rest of 1942 was passing uneventfully for the country and for the three girls who had all resumed their places of employment. But one day when she was alone downstairs in the bookshop, Abigail came to a definite decision. She had been thinking about it – worrying about it – for a long time, because she knew that their present situation could not go on for ever, and that she and Emily must think about leaving number six. There had to come a time when they moved on – and out. Though Emily would certainly not be happy …
One of the newer reasons for leaving was that it was obvious that Eileen and Simon Hill had formed quite a relationship since the party in June. They were constantly exchanging letters, and Eileen’s rush to pick up the mail each morning spoke volumes. Abigail had teased her about it.
‘I think we are going to hear about another engagement one day soon,’ she’d said, and Eileen had hushed her up.
‘Don’t be daft, Abigail. It’s not like that … but Simon does write interesting letters.’
‘I’m sure he does!’ Abigail had replied. ‘He certainly seems very interested in you!’
And it was true. Abigail had noticed it at the party. Simon had singled Eileen out straightaway, and after supper they’d spent most of the evening outside in the garden, deep in conversation.
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But it opened out the worry in Abigail’s mind. Surely there would come the day when Eileen would want to be married – if not to Simon, then to someone else – and at least in the beginning they would live together at number six. There would hardly be room for Abigail and Emily to still be there in residence.
But that consideration was little compared to the thing that had begun to give Abigail sleepless nights.
It was that when they moved out would be the time when she would at last somehow find the courage to admit all her deceit to her friends. She could not bear the burden of the lies she had told to go on weighing her down. And moving out would be the time, the only time, when she could break the news. Because when they were told, they would be appalled, Abigail knew it. They would want to know why she hadn’t told them before, why she had felt the need to keep her secret for so long …
But she would have to find the right moment, the exact little window of opportunity, when she could try to explain. To try to make them understand. But timing was everything, and when was the right time? The time when it would upset Emily the least, and Mrs Matthews for that matter. The bond between the two had become as close as that of any blood relatives.
It was the end of the half-term holiday in October and the girls were going to take Emily to Caroline’s Cake Shop in Black Boy Hill for afternoon tea (with Gladys Matthews insisting it was to be her treat). They could have gone to Janet’s but decided that as this was the last holiday before Christmas, they’d choose something a bit different. Eileen’s mother had decided not to go with them, saying that after the dinner they’d just had she couldn’t possibly eat another thing until tomorrow.
Much later that evening when Emily had gone to bed and Abigail, Eileen and Carrie were with Gladys Matthews in her room chatting about their outing, Eileen said, ‘You must come with us to Caroline’s next time, Mother. It is so pleasant there, and her cakes are something different. I don’t know how she finds all the ingredients.’
