Summer in February

by Jonathan Smith

  ‘Where did you say this painting school was, my dear, Mouse-hole or Newlyn?’

  ‘Newlyn, Mother.’

  ‘Oh good, that sounds so much better, much more congenial, though I fail to see why you have to travel quite so far to sketch something.’

  ‘Why does she have to sketch anything at all?’ her father said, forking a kidney.

  This was familiar territory for Florence. Embroidery and quilts her father could understand, that was the right kind of thing for a woman. But daubing! Facing her father and his kidney, Florence spoke with icy control.

  ‘Because Mr Stanhope Forbes – oh, we have discussed this so often – because Mr Stanhope Forbes teaches in Newlyn and because Mr Wilks who is teaching me here at home cannot teach.’

  Mother and daughter listened to Mr Carter-Wood crunch his kidney. This took some time. Mr Carter-Wood ate slowly. What Florence could not understand was how a man who ate so much and so often could remain so thin. He wiped his mouth and spoke as he slowly lowered his napkin.

  ‘Mr Wilks is considered a good enough painting master for most families. Don’t get too many fancy notions, my girl, or you’ll soon be brought back here.’ He pushed back his chair to curtail the conversation. Even as he did so, even as the maid cleared the plates, Florence fancied she could smell the longed-for Atlantic. Her face took on a fresh, childlike excitement, she felt the wind on her cheeks, the excitement you feel when you come round a bend in the road and for the first time on your journey your eye hits a sunburst on the sea or you lean over a gate and admire the view and talk freely or walk arm in arm with brilliant and unconventional artists.

  So she was not as sad as she might have been when she said goodbye to Papa (kissing his dry cheek at Paddington) and boarded the Cornish Riviera Express, nor quite as sad as she might have been when she said goodbye to her mother in the drawing-room, her mother in tears and holding Florence’s hands a little longer than Florence wished them to be held. Certainly Lucy, her elder cousin who had kindly agreed to accompany her on the journey, thought she might have made rather more of an effort all round. After all, she was leaving home for the first time.

  ‘Exactly,’ Florence said, as she settled into her carriage and took out her new sketchbook. And did this other England, did the West, look as she imagined it would when she sat in the library with the Atlas in front of her? In something of a trance she sketched these swift intrusions, glancing out of the window, looking up and down from passing landscape to the pad on her knees, listening to the tiresomely voluble Lucy as she had to do, but the landscape went past all too quickly for her to form impressions beyond Elizabethan gables, oaks and elms, pillared porticos, slow rivers, warm and trim red-brick towns, calves at the edge of a pond and horses in a field … and the further west she went (no, no, she really did not want sandwiches or scones, thank you, but you do, please), the further west she went the England of oaks and elms and slow, wide rivers gave way to undulating moors, faster streams, plain villages and windswept stone-walled country.

  ‘Have you noticed, Lucy, there are fewer people?’

  ‘Quite a lot got off at Plymouth.’

  ‘No, silly, fewer people out there, I mean, fewer houses, more gorse, haven’t you noticed, more slate.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Lucy said, spreading the damson jam on to her bread. ‘How long will it be to Penzance?’

  It should have been no more than twenty minutes to Penzance but it took them two and a half hours. It was beginning to rain quite steadily when, for no apparent reason, the express suddenly went into a convulsive shiver, then a violent series of judders and clanks, pitchforking Florence off her seat. The train grunted and shrieked in spasms, taking a long time to slow and grind to a halt. For a moment or two everything was very quiet, then there was the sound of running feet and loud shouts.

  Dusk was falling and the rain started to come on in full strength. Through the rain men ran back up the line. Three guards gathered at the side of the track and were later joined by a policeman in a shiny cap. Observing all this, Florence sat very still, only her eyes moving. As she wiped the window with her handkerchief she watched the racing raindrops compete with the condensation and with a murky reflection of herself.

  Lucy exhaled. Then exhaled again, as if Florence had not heard the first exhalation, and then stomped out of the carriage in a huff to see if she could find out what on earth was causing this dreadful delay. Florence took the opportunity of her cousin’s absence to slip her hand into her pocket to read, yet again, the crumpled letter.

  Dearest Blote,

  I have decided I will brook no denial. If you are as dismayed at your lack of progress with Mr Wilks as you say you are, and, dear sister, you have always been one to tell the truth, and if you are as keen to improve as I believe you to be, you are to join me here. There is room enough in the cottage. By the same post I am writing to Papa to urge him to permit this. To be admitted into the company of artists here is far more to be desired, is it not, than to be presented at court?

  As for your neighbours, on the right-hand side, as I have previously told you, you will have Harold and Laura Knight, two quite wonderful artists, and on your left, as I have not previously told you since their arrival here from Bermondsey is quite recent, are Dolly and Prudence, two most beautiful models. Did God ever make elsewhere such perfect forms?

  In the six months I have been here – is it six months already? – I have learnt far more about the human and the animal world than I ever learnt in London. Another stroke of good fortune has been making the acquaintance of Captain Gilbert Evans. He is older than I by some five years but when was age any barrier to true friendship?

  If my findings on the sea coast so far are any guide I think, in time, I might well be able to astonish the world. For the moment I will say no more, beyond assuring you that the anemones, and rock pools in general, also offer endless possibilities for the artist.

  Do ensure you bring the appropriate clothes.

  Your loving brother,

  Joey.

  ‘The human and the animal world!’ Florence smiled to herself as she folded up the longest letter she had ever received from her loving brother and placed it in the pocket of what she hoped would prove an appropriate coat. She placed it there just as Lucy came back into the carriage with the news that there had been an accident, but as no one would tell Lucy its exact nature Florence herself stood up and walked, in her most composed way, through to the back of the train. As she arrived there she looked out of the open carriage door to see a man’s trunk being placed on a brown leather stretcher. Both his legs and one of his hands had been cut off.

  That delay, with a confusion over the date which Joey later admitted was his own fault, explained why he was talking to Dolly and Prudence at the studio party and did not meet her at Penzance station, and explained why she arrived at the most annoying possible moment for Alfred Munnings.

  Florence was now sitting in her neighbours’ cottage, at the plain wooden table set by the Knights, while Laura was telling Florence her version of the story of Alfred and the Fox, in which Alfred was even braver than he was in Joey’s account.

  Harold looked at Florence’s profile: Botticelli’s Venus, no more, no less.

  Laura rattled on about Alfred Munnings, no more, no less.

  Harold had, quite early in the piece, switched off the Munnings story, suspecting many and various embellishments from Laura, and switched on his forensic stare, as if he was measuring Florence for a frame, gathering the lines of her features in his clear mind’s eye. It was clear. Florence was perfect for his purposes, the perfect accompaniment to his art. She was as poised and as pale as Munnings was red-nosed and foul-mouthed (Florence stayed still, whereas Munnings threw his arms about like a windmill) and as soon as the extremely tedious fox saga drew to its long-awaited conclusion Harold would ask her how her classes with Stanhope Forbes were progressing.

  ‘Oh, not as well as I had hoped, I have to say.’

&
nbsp; ‘But … quite well?’ Harold liked her understatement. It offered a blessed relief from the obligatory superlatives of the fresh-air brigade.

  ‘Oh yes, quite well.’

  ‘What is … disappointing? If that is the case?’

  ‘Joey and his tanks and aquarium! Will you do all you can to ensure he attends the classes with me? Please. It’s a matter of life and death. Well, it … could be.’

  Harold pushed his glasses up a little on his nose.

  ‘I’m not sure he pays that much attention to me. He’s more likely to listen to Laura.’

  ‘But you can try. He’s here to study art, not the lowest order of animals to be found in a muddy pool.’

  ‘And I will try of course. But your brother lives very much – how shall I put it? – his own life down here. And I am told a young man must have his head.’

  ‘Har-old!’ Laura said, with a warning emphasis.

  ‘And what kind of subjects do you favour?’ Harold quickly asked.

  Florence looked from Harold to Laura to Harold, trying to understand the nature of the warning, then said:

  ‘At the moment I am simply trying to improve my drawing. That is all, and, for the moment, that is enough.’

  She spoke, she invested, each ordinary word with care and precision.

  ‘That’s practice, that’s all,’ Laura broke into the conversation, ‘you keep at it, Florence, just hammer away at it, page after page, sketch pad after sketch pad, believe me, I’ve got piles of them on the shelf there, look at mine for yourself if you like, and before you can say anemone you’ll find—’

  ‘But take your time,’ Harold countered, with quiet emphasis, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose again. ‘Art is not a race, art is not a matter of who can cover the most paper!’

  Laura clapped her hands and stood up and made some tea. She knew only too well that Harold was criticising her as much as talking to Florence, so she cut some chunks of bread and listened through the open kitchen door. Had Florence Carter-Wood ever, in her pampered days, seen chunks of bread? Laura doubted it. There was, however, no doubting her husband Harold’s interest.

  Come to think of it, Laura Knight thought, Florence looked exactly right for one of Harold’s interiors, with the tone and quality of a quiet sitting-room, with a place prearranged for the picture in the quiet corner of a gallery; she even spoke in the same finely balanced tones as Harold painted.

  Laura carried in the chunks of bread, even chunkier than they need have been, and told Florence to help herself. Florence did not. As for Harold, he did not even notice Laura’s return into the room. He was staring at Botticelli’s Venus sitting there opposite him, anticipating his painting, absorbing her in his hands and eyes. In a sad way, Laura found it all rather funny. He looked like a bird of prey eyeing a field mouse, an old buzzard mesmerically circling a young, unguarded prey …

  No, no, stop it, Laura, stop it now.

  But the staring was, in all conscience, enough to put the Carter-Wood girl off. Not that she looked at all discomfited by his scrutiny, quite the reverse. She sat with her hands on her lap (having again refused the bread) and waited for the next question. It was inevitable. After some preliminary clearing of Harold’s throat, followed by a very thorough cleaning of his spectacles with a large blue handkerchief, it duly came.

  ‘I would like to ask you a favour, Florence, if I may …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It is quite a substantial favour. I would like to paint you … if I may.’

  ‘Paint me?’

  ‘If you have the time, that is. But then you are only next door, which is a blessing.’

  He closed his eyes and waited for the confirmation.

  ‘That might be difficult, I’m afraid. At the moment.’

  Harold opened his eyes.

  ‘Oh, I quite understand, you are over at your class in Newlyn three days a week, and your work must come first. Of course, of course. As you said, that is why you have joined us here.’

  ‘No, it’s not simply my work, important though that is. It is that I have already promised to sit on a horse for Mr Munnings.’

  ‘On a … horse?’

  Harold seemed to find difficulty with the concept.

  ‘He asked me today … he called on us again this morning. Somehow I could not refuse.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t come here,’ Laura said with some sharpness. ‘What time exactly did he call?’

  ‘He wishes to paint you on a horse?’ Harold blinked.

  ‘Yes, it seems so. Outside his studio.’

  ‘Oh, ah, oh, I, yes, I see. On a … horse. Yes.’

  Harold nodded sadly to himself, and to their tortoiseshell cat by his feet. Munnings, he thought. Munnings, the procurer of models.

  ‘You do ride, do you?’ Laura asked, as if willing to be surprised.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘A.J. is a great rider, the best in the district, I’m told, better than anyone else.’

  ‘So we hear,’ Harold said. ‘So we hear.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with exercise, Harold. Some people rather enjoy it.’

  Harold focused on his thin knees, trying to recover his equilibrium, and trying to imagine what in God’s name could be achieved by placing a person of Florence’s exquisite beauty on the back of an animal.

  ‘You could ask Dolly to sit for you, or Prudence,’ Laura went on, ‘I’m sure they’ll be keen.’

  ‘I think … perhaps … not. Not quite … my …’

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Laura offered.

  ‘No, not quite,’ he said to himself.

  And as soon as he could Harold excused himself to finish a, well not to finish exactly, it had not reached that point, but to … return to … to continue with … his work upstairs.

  ‘So,’ Laura took over, watching her husband leave, ‘what exactly were you doing before you came down here?’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Florence smiled, ‘nothing at all. Just waiting.’

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘Just waiting.’

  Florence stared at Laura as if ‘waiting’ were self-evident.

  ‘Oh,’ Laura said.

  Then Florence laughed, and laughed in a way which quite worried Laura, as if Laura’s question were quite absurd. As quickly as Florence had laughed she was serious again.

  ‘May I ask you something, Laura?’

  ‘Of course,’ Laura beamed.

  ‘Do you like Alfred Munnings?’

  ‘Now there’s a question! There is a question.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, I mean I can see he’s crude and loud and unpolished and Joey says he cuts his toenails at picnics but I wanted to know if that stops you liking him. You are quite sure you don’t mind the question?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind the question.’ Laura felt her face flush, transfusing from strawberry to raspberry, a colouring which reminded Florence of a sight in Joey’s aquarium.

  ‘I think Alfred is quite splendid, yes, he’s one in a million, a breath of fresh air, and he’s frank and fearless, which is always a fine thing. He has a rare quality, he seems to seize life, to seize it, and not many of us do that, do we?’

  ‘You do like him!’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  There was more defiance than warmth in Laura’s toothy smile. There was a pause. And then Florence asked:

  ‘And do you like Captain Evans?’

  ‘Gilbert!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gilbert? Of course I do. Good God, who doesn’t! Any more questions?’

  It seemed there were not. Then it seemed there was just one more.

  ‘If you don’t mind? But I fear I am going too far.’

  ‘Anything, anything, why not?’

  Laura laughed. Then Florence stood up.

  ‘No, I think I should go. I have clearly overstayed.’

  Laura followed her to the front door.


  ‘Why, don’t go, no, I was enjoying our talk, there’s no need to rush off like this, just as we are getting to know one another.’

  ‘There is. Will you excuse me? And please tell your husband I will indeed sit for him … I answered him very clumsily, didn’t I? Very stupidly. Especially as I had asked for his kind help and support over Joey. Sometimes I am very selfish.’

  They shook hands rather formally, even though Florence had merely to walk down the garden path one way only to walk back up it the other side of the wall. Laura watched through the window as Florence opened and closed the gate behind her. There was nothing clumsy about that. Nor about the way Florence looked back at the watcher at the window and nodded.

  Laura coloured once again, from strawberry to raspberry.

  The Girl on Horseback

  ‘Did I hear your brother call you “Bloat”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you spell that?’

  ‘B-l-o-t-e.’

  ‘And what sort of bloody silly name is that?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  Her absence of curiosity over her name intrigued him. He painted. She sat. And then she said, without any change in her position or tone of voice:

  ‘And do you have to swear all the time?’

  ‘Where does it come from? This B-l-o-t-e business?’

  ‘I have to say I don’t know. It’s just a word.’

  Florence’s eyes were steadily trained on the middle branch, exactly as A.J. had bidden them to be. Her expression was thoughtful, her skin pale and faultless, exactly as he wished them to be. He also liked the odd way her mind worked and the little unexpected jerks her answers gave his hands. His brush touched the canvas, no, bugger, it was meant to be only a touch of the brush but, hell and high water, he hit the canvas far too hard. Blast his vision! That was a sodding splodge he’d just put on the canvas, not a touch. Don’t tell me this girl was already affecting his skill? He scraped some of the paint off, which only made everything even worse. He burst out:

  ‘You must have some idea!’

  ‘My Uncle John in Carlisle was the first to use it, I’m told.’

  ‘Well, I’d want to know why I was called something, so ask him.’