The Painting

by Alison Booth

  After the applause – the standing ovation that her father often received – Sarah couldn’t resist turning around, and there was Henry, clapping along with the rest. He caught her eye and smiled. And then the audience sat down to hear what Mrs Buxton had to say. Sarah’s father and Mrs Buxton were a double act. Her father roused the audience while Mrs Buxton described how the enfranchisement of women could be achieved.

  After the meeting was over and the Camerons were heading into the street, she found that Henry was by her side. He told her he was to dine with Charles at his club. She calculated that, if they walked very slowly, they’d have about ten minutes of conversation before reaching the junction of Wimpole and New Cavendish Streets and the parting of their ways. She was acutely conscious of his presence but the wide brim of her hat, only inches from his shoulder, hid his expression.

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve attended one of these meetings?’ She tilted her head so she could see his face and almost tripped on an uneven paving stone, slippery in the damp. She caught her breath and coughed. The air was smoggy, heavy with soot. He held her elbow until she had righted herself and she was sorry when he let go.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course, I do think that women should have the vote,’ he added hastily, ‘But I’m just not a political animal. Never have been.’

  ‘My sister Harriet is a political animal, and so’s my father, of course,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s a shame she’s at home with a bad cold.’ But she was being hypocritical; she was glad Harriet hadn’t been there, glad that Harriet wasn’t accompanying her as she strolled beside Henry Vincent through the dense fog. ‘Tonight wasn’t typical,’ she added. ‘But at least you learned the history of the movement, or did you know that before?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t remember a word of what Dr Bagnall said. The other talks were different. Your father was downright inspiring. Mrs Buxton was short and to the point. I’ll never forget this evening.’

  She wondered if he meant their encounter or the riot at the back of the hall or the talks. After a moment’s thought she decided he meant all three. ‘I’ll never forget it either. What brought you here?’

  ‘Charles invited me.’ Henry explained that he’d been back in England for only three months and that most of that time had been spent with his people in Suffolk. Indeed, this was only his second trip to London since his return. He was here on business for his father, and what a stroke of luck running into Charles at his club five days ago. He’d been at school with Charles’ youngest brother and had often spent part of the school holidays at the Barclays’ place in Scotland, so when he’d bumped into Charles it had been almost like meeting a member of his family. School friendships were like that, they lasted, especially for boys who’d been packed off to boarding school from the age of five. It must have been a good three years since he’d last seen Charles, just before he’d gone to Australia. Charles had immediately invited him to dinner but insisted that he first accompany him to the WFL meeting. But he was boring Sarah, he’d been babbling on like a brook in full flow, he really must apologise. He bent to peer under her hat. His face was framed with little tendrils of hair, curling in the damp air.

  ‘Charles can be quite persistent,’ she said. ‘Father says that’s why he’s doing so well at the Colonial Office. What were you up to in Australia?’

  ‘I worked at a stock and station agents in Sydney for a bit. That involved a lot of travelling around. Then I spent some time on a sheep station in the High Country of New South Wales.’

  ‘The High Country. How lovely that sounds!’ She estimated they were now about thirty seconds away from New Cavendish Street.

  ‘They call the southern tablelands the High Country. Or the Monaro. I loved it there. So much space.’ He paused and seemed to be struggling to express his thoughts. ‘The light’s harsh there. You can’t escape it but it clarifies things somehow. It makes you see what matters and what doesn’t.’ He was speaking so softly that she could barely distinguish the words. ‘I’ve never been good at explaining myself.’

  ‘But you are. That’s how I feel about music.’ She wanted to continue but there was no time; her father and Charles Barclay had caught up with them.

  ‘Charles tells me you’ve just returned from New South Wales,’ Sarah’s father said to Henry.

  ‘Queensland too,’ said Henry.

  ‘We mustn’t forget Queensland,’ her father said, smiling. ‘Would you like to come to tea next Sunday and tell us all about it?’

  ‘I’d be delighted to.’ Henry spoke with such haste that he almost stammered the words.

  ‘Charles can show you where we are.’ Sarah’s father shook Henry’s hand and then gave her his arm. She turned once, when they had gone ten yards, and saw Henry watching them as they walked down New Cavendish Street towards Bloomsbury. She nodded at him and he waved back.

  She couldn’t wait for next Sunday.

  About the Author

  Alison is the author of six novels and has contributed short stories to a number of collections. Her debut novel, Stillwater Creek, was Highly Commended in the 2011 ACT Book of the Year Award, and A Perfect Marriage was Highly Commended in the 2019 ACT Writing and Publishing Awards. Alison was Professor of Economics at the University of Essex until 2013 and is now Emeritus Professor at the Australian National University. For more information visit her fiction website at: https://www.alisonbooth.net/about