by A. J. Cronin
He flung down the paper. Claire, sitting motionless, with a strained expression, had to curb an immediate and almost irresistible impulse to pick it up. Meanwhile the General had risen and, standing with his back to the fire, lit his pipe with a sort of frowning detachment.
‘How will they take this at the Rectory?’
‘Badly. It’s sure to reopen the whole messy business.’
‘I suppose he’ll turn up at home.’
‘Bound to. He can’t have a bean.’
The General’s brows drew together reflectively.
‘I’m afraid Bertram is not now in a position to subsidise him. Pity … great pity! It surprises me the fellow has the nerve to show his face in England.’
‘Not me. I knew he would sneak back when the fighting was over.’
Claire had kept silent during these exchanges. Now she ventured:
‘I wonder if the paintings are as bad as they make out.’
‘Good heavens! Didn’t you hear what the chap just said about ’em?’
‘I know, Geoffrey. But it seemed to me a rather biased critique. He also admitted he couldn’t grasp the meaning of the pictures. He mayn’t be qualified to judge.’
‘Not qualified! Why, he’s an expert. Or he wouldn’t be on the Post.’
‘Then there’s Glyn,’ Claire persisted, mildly, but with slightly heightened colour. ‘A well-known artist. Why should he sponsor Stephen’s work if it were rubbish?’
‘Because he’s hand in glove with my heroic cousin, and a damned radical to boot.’ Geoffrey glared at his wife, unaccountably irritated by her attitude of logic. ‘I daresay they fixed this thing up together in some rotten dive in Paris.’
‘However it was arranged,’ said the General with quiet reason, ‘it’s a bad thing for the family … very. When I think of David … and this …’ He moved towards the door. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Claire, I’ll telephone Bertram now.’
‘Do that, Father,’ Geoffrey agreed with approval, pushing back his chair. ‘ I’ll meet you in the billiard-room. We’ll have a hundred up, and talk it over.’
Alone, Claire took up the paper, found the paragraph she sought, read it through twice, sat for a few minutes, pensive, yet with troubled eyes. Then, abruptly, she rose and went upstairs to the nursery. But Nicholas and little Harriet had already gone out with Nurse Jenkins for their walk to the lodge. Whatever the weather, Jenkins was a believer in the morning ‘airing’, and from the window Claire made out the two small figures of her children, in yellow oilskins and south-westers, plodding forward in their Wellingtons, on either side of the stout blue-coated Nanny, who, more for gentility than protection, carried a tall umbrella. It was a reassuring sight and, without knowing, Claire smiled. Yet almost immediately, she sighed. There was, of course, beyond her concern for the family, no cause for her to be unduly disturbed by the unexpected news of Stephen’s reappearance. She had, in Geoffrey’s phrase, written him off long ago. Acknowledging his defects, she, like the others, deplored them. Yet there still lingered in her the hope that he would in some way make atonement, less for than through these same lamentable peculiarities. And her sense of justice, so she named it, detected in the review of his exhibition a note of prejudice, a judgement of the man rather than the artist, which made her wish to rise in his defence – at least, she corrected herself, in defence of his work.
The rain continued, the men could not shoot, and in the dull passage of the afternoon Geoffrey’s irritability increased. Claire knew that he was cross with her for being out of sorts – as if the fault were hers – and she suspected also that he had an unpleasant settlement day in prospect. But although she was sensitive to his moods, and indeed to the moods of others, upon this occasion her own preoccupation protected her. An impulse, as yet only half formed, was stirring beneath her consciousness.
On the following morning she drove to Halborough Junction and boarded the train for London. Seated alone in the corner of the compartment, wearing a dark grey costume, her small hat drawn back from her fine creamy brow, chin sunk in a brown necklet of fur, gloved hand clasped before her, she gazed with eyes unusually dark and wide at the green, familiar Sussex fields, sodden with recent rain, the clipped hedges and swirling ditches, the chalky Arun, winding between wet grasses, russet sedges, and bulrushes that stood like purple spears.
At Victoria she took a taxi to Wimpole Street, where Dr Ennis, delayed at the hospital, kept her waiting until quarter past eleven. But the consultation passed off without incident, she was pronounced much improved, rallied a little on her pensive mood, then liberated, with a smile and a paternal pressure of the arm, just before noon.
Slowly, she walked towards the West End, the entire afternoon before her, responding to the movement of unknown people, the gay shop-windows and rushing omnibuses – these days of emancipation were always dear to her. Should she go to her club? No, she decided she was not in the humour for chatter. Unconsciously, perhaps, her steps had taken her through Oxford Street to a little French pastry-cook’s at the upper end of Bond Street. Here she ordered coffee and a brioche. Geoffrey, in his role of country squire, demanded such rich and satisfying meals, it was a relief to lunch on less vitalising fare. Afterwards, quite contrary to custom, as though its purpose was merely to delay departure, she smoked a cigarette … Ennis had encouraged her to minor dissipations.
Presently, however, she was in the street again and moving, uncertainly at first, then with a sort of fatalism, towards the Maddox Galleries. Here it was, a narrow frontage, rather in need of paint, pressed between an antique shop and the studio of a fashionable photographer. She entered quickly, with a beating heart, surprised by the modest appearance and by the emptiness of the place. Only two women were present, conversing softly, in the tones of Surbiton, behind a catalogue; a long somnolent youth in striped trousers and black braided jacket, reading at a desk, seemed the sole guardian of the gallery.
As her vision cleared, Claire began to look at the paintings, seeing little in the beginning but an audacious contrast of brilliant colours, yet striving, despite the emotion which troubled her, to evaluate, to understand them. Could she do so? No, perhaps not. She was unqualified, rating herself a very ordinary person, with only a modest endowment of what might be called artistic taste. And, she admitted, she was not impartial, wishing with all her heart to like and approve the pictures. Nevertheless, despite these disadvantages, she was conscious, honestly, of the powerful impact, of a sense of animation, an intensity of life springing from the canvases before her. She saw in them an originality of form and idea. They were not commonplace.
One, in particular, an Andalusian landscape, held her for a long time. She could feel the hard brilliance of the light, the sun beating on arid slopes and stunted olive trees. Then she came upon the figure of a barefoot peasant, an old woman, standing in profile, dressed in a ragged blouse and skirt of sacking, with a wooden azada upon her shoulder. There was in this composition such a fusion of sadness and dignity, so poignant an expression of the soul of oppressed and suffering humanity, it touched Claire to the heart.
Suddenly, as she stood absorbed, a voice addressed her. She swung round, and saw Stephen. Immediately the blood rushed from her cheeks – from surprise and shock she actually turned faint. Not for an instant had she dreamed he would be here, indeed, her visit, unpremeditated and impulsive, had all the elements of secrecy. She had thus a sense of being discovered, of having somewhat shamefully revealed herself.
‘Claire! How good of you to come.’
He took her hand warmly, held it for a moment between his hard thin fingers. He had, she saw through her confusion, become extremely thin, his figure was taut and spare, there seemed not an ounce of flesh upon him. And he had grown a beard, cropped close on cheek and chin, which somehow accentuated the length of jaw and temple hollows, gave the planes of his face bones an almost startling gauntness. Yet he was brown and held himself erect. Dressed in washed corduroy, flannel shirt and blue pilot coat, he h
ad a vital quality which reassured her, corrected an impression that he had been ill.
‘How little changed you are,’ he went on. ‘Let’s sit over here, where we can talk. You are in town for the day, of course. How are the children, and Geoffrey?’
She gave him news of her family, not daring to mention his own people at the Rectory. His manner, direct and friendly, lacking entirely that youthful shyness which had once tormented him, should have set her at ease. Yet, try as she might, she could not fully regain her composure, could scarcely look at him.
‘I suppose you’ve been round the show,’ he remarked lightly, after they had talked for several minutes. ‘Do tell me what you think of it.’
‘I like it …’ she answered awkwardly, like a schoolgirl.
‘Don’t be afraid to speak your mind,’ he reassured her. ‘I’m quite hardened to abuse.’
She flushed unexpectedly.
‘We saw the critique in the Post. I’m so sorry. It was so … so unfair.’
‘Oh, that! That was comparatively mild. Almost complimentary. You ought to see some of my other notices … sheer effrontery … aboriginal daubs … perverted nonsense …’ He smiled faintly. ‘Why, when Peyrat and I held our first exhibition, in a little room of the Rue Pigalle, the solitary critic who came advised us to burn our canvases and start a sausage shop.’
The calmness of his tone affected her deeply. Her gaze, downcast, took in a rough dam on the knee of his corduroys, and, more particularly, his boots, well brushed and neatly laced, but coarse, heavy workman’s boots, with thick nail-studded soles. She exclaimed, involuntarily:
‘Stephen! It hasn’t been easy for you.’
Instantly he rejected this sympathy. ‘I’ve been doing what I wanted to do. The only thing that matters to me … without which I couldn’t bear to exist.’
‘But it must be dreadfully discouraging, to meet always with abuse, to be denied success.’
‘Material success isn’t so important, Claire. Usually it’s assessed by false standards. It’s the work itself, and one’s feeling for it, that really matters. Besides, I’ve had some slight recognition. Two of my paintings are in the Municipal Gallery in The Hague, one in Brussels and another in the Oslo State Museum.’ Her movement of surprise made him smile again. ‘ Does that amaze you? After all, some countries do buy the works of the younger artist.’
The revelation, so unexpected, filled her with pleasure. Her eyes came to rest on the painting of the old Spanish woman.
‘I like that … very much.’
‘Luisa Mendez. Yes, she was a good one. When I was down to my last peseta she took me in. She had little enough. But it was clean poverty.’ He added: ‘She was blind.’
Claire studied the picture and, anxious to show her interest, ventured:
‘The rough finish is striking.’
He smiled.
‘I couldn’t afford proper canvas. It’s painted on burlap … a piece cut from a potato sack.’
‘Have you just come from Spain?’
‘No, I got out eighteen months ago. There was a man in Paris I wanted to work with. Amédée Modigliani. A fine painter. I was fond of him.’
‘You say, “ was”?’
‘He died in January at the Hôpital de la Charité. Next day the girl he lived with killed herself.’
The calmness of his tone startled her. What depths had he not sounded in these intervening years? Nervously she stole another look at him. Yes, she could see in his face the marks of hardships and expedients, as though for years he had mixed with the poorest and most wretched of his kind, and driven almost to despair, had escaped, not through cynicism, but by the secret passion that was in him. What a queer fellow he was … and yet …
A silence followed. Several persons came into the gallery, with an air of investigating a curiosity. The young man behind the desk was sitting up, sweeping back his hair with a pocket-comb. Claire felt his eyes upon her.
‘Are you staying in London?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Glyn’s given me a shakedown in his studio. Just off the Fulham Road. He’s away for a few weeks. Maddox has been rather decent to me too. By the bye, he’ll be here at three. I’d like you to meet him.’
She stirred nervously at the thought of further involvement. She could not, must not wait, made a pretence of inspecting her watch.
‘I must rush for my train.’ She began to gather up her things, folded her catalogue, placed it in her handbag. Then forced herself to ask an all-important question. ‘You will be coming to the Rectory, won’t you, Stephen?’
There was a pause.
‘It was a mistake for me to go back before. It would be a worse one now. Besides, they can’t possibly want me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they do. I talked on the telephone with Caroline last evening. They have really missed you.’
A longer pause.
‘Well,’ he hesitated, ‘if I’m asked …’
‘I’m so glad. We shall see you there, then, Stephen. Good-bye.’
Outside, the air was cool upon her warm cheeks, the western sky held a rosy gleam. She walked briskly, lightly even, down the incline of St James’s and across the Mall towards the station, her mind still occupied by her recent brief encounter. It seemed to her remarkable that she had seen and talked with Stephen. The protective instinct she had always had towards him, and which, of course, she still might legitimately feel, was re-aroused, and in its glow she was happy – without knowing it, happier than she had been for many months.
In the train, as it tore through the October twilight, past darkling woods, stark trees, and unseen villages where lights already made frosty haloes in cottage windows, a smile of recollection parted her lips. And suddenly, she had a thought, one might say an inspiration, which caused her to sit up with a stifled exclamation. How splendid, if it could be done! She set herself to consider the possibilities calmly. Inevitably, in the circumstances, there would be difficulties, yet surely, oh, surely she could overcome them. At least she would try with all her heart.
Chapter Two
Stephen had arrived in England with less than three pounds in his pocket – a condition of near insolvency that was certainly no novelty to him. Fortunate in having a bed and the use of the small kitchenette in Glyn’s unused studio, he had nevertheless to do his own catering, and the post-war price of food appalled him. A quartern loaf now cost one and fourpence, a pound of the cheapest sugar, previously sold for twopence, had soared to one and three. Daily the cost of living rocketed, inflicting suffering upon the wage-earners, and even greater hardships upon those who, like himself, were earning nothing.
Often in those years of absence his thoughts had turned back towards London. Now he scarcely recognised it. The process of demobilisation, still proceeding, the reshuffling of thousands of human beings, produced a shifting air of dislocation, gave to the city the singular impermanence of a change-house. In the West End a restless gaiety prevailed. Nearly a million young Britons had died in the war, another million had been incapacitated. Was it to forget this fact, or because it already was forgotten, that people flocked to places of entertainment, to the theatres, cinemas, restaurants and nightclubs? Sadness had vanished as though it had never been.
But the river remained unchanged, and Stephen, spurning the busy streets, spent many hours wandering along the Chelsea and Battersea embankments, studying the fluid play of reflections, infinite gradations of grey light, broken by a sudden gleam of pink and pearl – the pale discretion of an October sun. During his brief but eventful sojourn in Stepney, the lower Thames had laid upon him a singular spell, a need, intense and insistent, to paint her there, in all her moods. A beach on the Isle of Dogs not far from Clinker Street he especially remembered and, moved by recollection, a kind of nostalgia, he felt increasingly the desire to renew his impressions of the scene. And one morning, the day before his exhibition closed, having nothing else to do, he took a bus to Stepney.
The weather was fair when he started o
ff, opaque grey sky and a calm still air, perfect for the colour tones he wanted, but unluckily, as the omnibus drew into Seven Sisters Lane, a misty rain swept up the estuary and blotted out the water-front. At the Red Lion he got off the bus and, with a look at the dripping overcast, turned up the collar of his jacket and soundly damned the climate. The day was killed for painting – no one but Monet could have dealt with the prevailing blur. But he was on familiar ground, the sight of the corner fish-and-chip shop and the oil-merchant’s store where he used to get his colours restored his spirits. And on an impulse he swung up the Lane into Clinker Street, mounted the steps of the Settlement, and rang the bell.
No one answered for a long time – running true to form, reflected Stephen – than a manservant with the general air of an old drill-sergeant, in discarded clerical trousers, with cropped head and a strip of green baize around his middle, opened the door.
‘Yes?’ He gazed at Stephen.
‘Is Mr Loftus still here? He was a curate on the district some years ago.’
‘You mean the Reverend Gerald Loftus? He did used to be here. Got on a treat since. Why, only last year they made him vicar of St Barnabas.’
‘Indeed! I’m glad he’s done so well. There was another curate about the same time, Mr Geer.’
‘Oh, Geer … he’s gone too. But he didn’t amount to much. He’s still a curate, I believe … mining village near Durham … rough stuff.’
‘I see.’ Stephen stood for a moment. Then, ‘You don’t by any chance know of a young woman who used to work here … her name is Jenny Baines?’
‘Mrs Baines!’ the man answered at once. ‘’Course I do. Lives quite near. Seventeen Cable Street. Had some bad luck in her time. But a nice little woman, and doing all right now.’
‘Bad luck?’
‘She had a kid what died. Then lost her husband. Caught a fever in Australia and was buried at sea. Why d’you ask? Friend of yours?’
‘Yes … in a way.’ Stephen spoke non-committally, then, as the sergeant’s gaze became more searching, he said. ‘ Thank you for your information,’ turned, and went down the steps.
