Summer in February

by Jonathan Smith

  ‘That would be difficult, he’s dead.’

  She waved away a fly, a winning wave.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Quite a nasty death, I understand.’

  Tilting the brim of his Panama Alfred looked up to check the expression on her face. He could not quite tell: a filter of bright light behind her head left the eyes and mouth, the seats of mockery, in shadow.

  She, Florence/Blote, was sitting as still as a statue, sitting side-saddle on Merrilegs, wearing her ankle-length coat and cream hat. That afternoon it hit Alfred again and again that Miss Carter Hyphen Wood was as paintable a girl as he had ever seen. No, more paintable! And what a bewitching poster she would make! No one in Norwich, in his Caley’s poster days, no one in London, not even the buxom nudes in his Paris atelier caused more stir in his fingers than this Aloof Florence Female.

  And was this aloofness of hers genuine or was it false aplomb?

  Good question, A.J.!

  Either way, how very different she was from the strapping and sturdy fishermen’s wives in Newlyn, standing together outside their houses in their black hats and aprons; how different from the masculine Laura Knight who was always making eyes at him in her hobnails. This girl was delectable, without a doubt, de-lect-able, and as for that small bunch of sweet peas hanging from her waist, was that a sweet disorder, a careless random decision, or a studied effect?

  Good question, A.J.!

  But there was no question she had the best-cut nose he’d ever seen, lovely chin too. Perfect hands as well, while we’re at it. But … the question was, when hot nights were scented with roses, did she have a tempestuous petticoat?

  Did … she?

  He put down his brush. It was time for a little Herrick. Yes, he felt a little Herrick coming on. He stepped away from the canvas, flexing his stiff fingers and loosening his rigid lower back a little, before announcing to the empty clearing:

  ‘Robert Herrick.’

  She turned to look through the trees.

  ‘Is someone arriving? You might have mentioned it.’

  ‘No, I said “Robert Herrick”. He was a poet.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Kept a pet pig too, Herrick did.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘And taught it to drink from a tankard. His father committed suicide.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’

  ‘No, the suicide came just after Herrick was born, before the pig, that is. But listen to this. Listen, and you won’t find anything finer.’

  ‘Shall I get down?’

  ‘No, it won’t take long. Just listen. Stay exactly where you are and listen to every word.

  ‘A sweet disorder in the dress

  Kindles in clothes a wantonness:

  A lawn about the shoulders thrown

  Into a fine distraction:

  An erring lace which here and there

  Enthralls the crimson stomacher.

  A cuff neglectful, and thereby

  Ribbons to flow confusedly:

  A winning wave, deserving note

  In the tempestuous petticoat:

  A careless shoe string, in whose tie

  I see a wild civility:

  Do more bewitch me than when art

  Is too precise in every part.’

  ‘You spoke that beautifully,’ she said. ‘And I do like the final lines. Would you please say them again?’

  He did so and she thanked him.

  ‘No, thank you for listening. More to the point, the lines are true. You prove them true in every particular.’ She smiled and nodded her acknowledgement of the compliment.

  ‘You obviously like poetry a great deal?’

  ‘I write poems as well, I’ll write one for you if you like.’

  ‘Would you? You really write poems?’

  ‘Painting is a kind of poetry too, poems are paintings I keep in my mind. And this painting is a poem, the best poem I’ve ever written.’

  He looked at Florence on horseback, unable to assess her, then rubbed his hands in anticipation.

  ‘So … back to work. Back to the girl on a horse with a name no one understands.’

  ‘I thought you said the horse was called Merrilegs.’

  He stopped.

  For a moment he was confused by her remark, then worked it out.

  ‘What? Oh, I see … Never could sort out my syntax.’

  Merrilegs was standing at the edge of the wood, in a clearing close to Munnings’ studio, and from the clearing, looking the other way, you could see part of the mill, and before he went to bed most nights Alfred liked to wander along there with Taffy to listen to the plash of the water. That sound made all the difference, it made a man feel he belonged.

  Florence adjusted her hat.

  ‘Don’t move!’ he barked.

  The leaves above her head had caught the sun, and the light was running down to her hat, making it almost white, that light must be caught and caught now, he mustn’t miss that, the way it ran down to her hat, his eye moved up and down, from her neck to her cuff, back and forth, from point of light to point of light. He made fast moves, using greens, yellow, white, ochre, more blue, just a … that’s enough, not too much, lighter touch, barely touch … and the brown behind her hat, that helped if he whitened the … and the stronger and the mellower … it was vital he …

  On he muttered to himself.

  Then, without taking his eyes off his work, he asked:

  ‘And is Joey being a good boy?’

  ‘Do you mean is he attending his classes?’

  ‘Amongst other things. Tilt your head back a bit more.’

  ‘Like that?’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’

  ‘You’ve obviously heard about Joey’s truancy.’

  ‘Yes … And his billiards. He … enjoys life, your brother. What’s he up to at the moment? Out in the exploding foam? Looking at his beauties, is he? Out with his chisel and oyster knife?’

  She disliked this knowing tone.

  ‘I really don’t know. Oh, he’s so annoying, he’ll ruin everything.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He’ll sacrifice me, I know he will, he’ll sacrifice me to dredge up something the tide brings in!’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we? Can’t have you being sacrificed … lower your hand a little … the cuff’s not quite right.’

  Even the horse seemed now to have caught some of his sitter’s stylish stillness. Alfred knew he must not lose this moment, this was a flying start, though he might need to whip her a bit coming round the bend.

  ‘Tell me about your family. Then yourself.’

  ‘My father owned a brewery in London.’

  ‘A brewery?’

  ‘And our home is in Chelsea.’

  ‘A brewery? You’d better keep me away from it then.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why!’ he snorted back.

  ‘Because you drink too much? Is that what you mean?’

  A.J. put the brush between his teeth for a second, like a pirate pausing for a breather during an attack, and put his hands defiantly on his hips. She was some girl, this one. A girl who seemed to know her power. Feeling his colour rise up the back of his neck he took the brush out of his mouth.

  ‘Yes, that is what I mean. I drink too much. All right?’

  ‘But that is no concern of mine, surely? Men do as they choose.’

  Part of him wanted to attack her hard, but he needed her to stay exactly where she was, so he nodded a rueful recognition of her point.

  ‘No, no, you’re right.’

  ‘And we have a house in Silloth.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Well, it is there, nevertheless, on the Solway Firth.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Would Carlisle help? Have you perhaps heard of the Lakes? The Lake District?’

  ‘Wordsworth, good man. So, you’re rich? You strike me as rich.’

  ‘Yes, we are. It is no
disgrace, I hope?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Good.’

  He started to paint again. Then he felt a competitive pride welling up in his chest, until his pride burst out.

  ‘I’m not rich, but I’m coining it and soon will be. I’ve sold ten paintings this year, twice as many as anyone else down here, including Laura, and I’ve got an exhibition coming up in less than a month.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘From Laura? You heard about it from her? Was it from Laura?’

  ‘Of course. She’s always talking about you, but then one finds everyone is, Laura, Joey, Gilbert, everyone.’

  ‘But not Harold?’

  ‘Yes, even Harold.’

  He was now painting very quickly. He was Constable.

  ‘At the Leicester Gallery. That’s where I’m exhibiting. In Leicester Square.’

  ‘Really? I know the gallery quite well. I’ve been there with Joey.’

  ‘Well, go there next month and you’ll see the works of Alfred Munnings.’

  ‘You’ll be famous, I can tell, there’s absolutely no doubt of that.’

  He needed the whip.

  ‘Oh, do sit still! You were doing so well … Yes, that’s better. Still! I said. So … so … your father sent you both down here, getting you off his hands?’

  ‘My father? No, I came of my own accord, I wanted to.’

  ‘But he allowed you to? Must have! Can’t have a girl like you wandering around here. Unless … that is … no, you’re not one of those advanced girls, are you?’

  ‘I do have to have Papa’s permission on everything, of course. So, for me, it is a matter of persuasion. But I do not intend ever to be … swallowed up, if that is what you mean?’

  ‘Can’t hear you,’ he said. ‘Wallowing in what?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t important.’

  The clearing was now very still, and the sky was woolly and soft. They could hear the mill grinding.

  ‘So you’re not one of those advanced girls … flowing silks, reading books you can’t understand, soft in the head, paintings by Rogering Fry, that sort of caper. No? Good! You’re not.’

  ‘Evidently not.’

  Her hat was making the picture glow. It was coming to life, keep going, Alfred, keep going. She was as alive on the canvas as she was on Merrilegs. He had the light running down her coat, transmitting, he was doing exactly what he wanted, today, in this clearing, he was Constable, didn’t Constable say landscape painting at its best was a branch of natural philosophy, and these trees were a presence rather than an instance, and wasn’t a picture an experiment in philosophy, your whole body alive to the world and its rhythms, his body taut yet malleable, alive with the work, a tumult of energy, he knew this was his art at its best, a conflagration. And that was no surprise because – well—

  Because had any woman ever looked better on a horse? And had there ever, in the history of women and the history of horses, ever been a less horsy woman who looked so at home on a horse? They were as one. They were made for each other.

  ‘But he allowed you to come to Cornwall because down here you’d be safe and sound?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A.J. looked up at her, his eyes screwed against the sun.

  ‘And to keep you away from the undesirables?’

  ‘I suppose that could be right, yes.’

  He grinned and said:

  ‘But that plan hasn’t worked, has it?’

  ‘Why not? Who here is undesirable, apart from Mr Knight?’

  That was sharp! That was sharp indeed. A.J. hadn’t laughed so much in … well, in a good while, not since he saw those undergraduates’ faces in The Fox and Grapes. Poor old Harold! Yes, this girl took some beating, this one sitting for him now was a champion filly all right, a complete stunner, but his laughter was cut short because at that moment Taffy, his damned dog, overexcited by his master’s loud laughter, escaped from the stables and ran barking and yapping up the lane. This unsettled Merrilegs. More important, it upset the picture. A.J. dropped his brush and chased Taffy and if he’d caught the little terrier he would have beaten him to within an inch of his life only he realised he’d better behave himself as he was being closely watched by his sharp sitter. Taffy eluded him like a mad hoop. Each time A.J. dived at the dog, it swerved.

  Unperturbed by the chase Florence dismounted and spent the time looking closely at the unfinished painting. She studied the stippling, the intersection of lines, the form, the techniques pointed out to her only the day before by Stanhope Forbes. She could perhaps learn even more from Alfred Munnings than she could from Stanhope Forbes. Or would it not be better to learn from them both? Or should this be where she spent all her days?

  ‘Taffy! Come here! Heel. Heel! You little bastard.’

  After a humiliating five minutes chasing this fugitive itch Munnings grabbed the dog, and brought him back, half pulling, half smacking him.

  ‘Just settle down … you little ruffian … you little killer.’

  Florence turned slowly from the painting and looked at the dog. He did not look a killer.

  ‘He’s not a killer, is he? He’s far too lovely to be a killer.’

  ‘He’s a killer all right. Look at his eyes. That’s how you tell. Look into his eyes.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Like bits of coloured glass. The eyes tell you everything.’

  She bent down and patted the dog. She looked into his eyes.

  ‘I don’t believe you. His eyes are very gentle.’

  ‘Believe what you bloody like,’ Munnings said, still panting a little from the chase.

  ‘You make most things up, I’m sure of that.’

  His eyes were ready to leap at her but he controlled himself.

  Being corrected by her, even being shamed by her, felt special.

  ‘Twenty-seven chickens before breakfast last January. All dead, every one, cost me a terrible packet, Taffy, didn’t you?’

  ‘Is that true?’ she asked the dog.

  ‘Well, seventeen chickens. Is seventeen all right? Are you always such a deflater?’

  She walked two paces away.

  ‘And was the fox story true? Did the fox survive?’

  He took out his big coloured handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  ‘Ah, you’ve heard!’

  ‘I was so glad you saved the fox, so very very glad.’

  ‘So was the fox.’

  She laughed.

  Yes, she was delectable, and sharp and she looked so composed in her gloves, in the clearing, standing there before him. Art was art, humans were humans, but art was best when it was human.

  ‘I killed a rat once,’ he said, turning away to light a cigarette.

  ‘With rat poison?’

  ‘No, blew it to bits among the bullrushes. Spread it everywhere. Boom!’

  ‘And you regretted it? You did regret it, do tell me you regretted it.’

  ‘Yes, it was terrible. Terrible. But only because I was so close to it, no other reason.’

  ‘Tell me something else.’

  He picked up his brush and looked at her.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Do you think Gilbert Evans has ever killed anyone?’

  ‘Gilbert!’ He laughed.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Gilbert? He’s the gentlest man on earth, nicest person going, wouldn’t harm a living creature.’

  ‘But he fought in South Africa, so he might have done, mightn’t he?’

  ‘That’s different, that’s not the same. War’s war.’

  ‘Oh? So that’s that, is it?’

  ‘Would you like it if he had killed someone?’

  He looked at the canvas, taking stock, reminding himself exactly where he was, and preparing to resume. Florence meanwhile was walking away, straightening her gloves.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have to leave now.’

  ‘Leave? Now?

  ‘Yes.’

&nb
sp; ‘But you can’t. Not now! Do something useful and sit on the horse!’

  ‘I have pins and needles and I have my own work to do. I can’t be both sides of the easel, can I?’

  Desolate, he opened his hands, pleading. He could hear his voice stumbling, he could hear his words falling over each other.

  ‘But you see … I’m on the edge of it … I’m just beginning to grapple … dammit you CAN’T go!’

  But she could. She was off.

  She was away down the rutted track towards the mill, walking at an unhurried pace.

  He came up again to her and spoke to her shoulder.

  ‘Is tomorrow … a possibility? Is it? Or next week? Say yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Good, good, next … Tuesday then? Tuesday? Or Wednesday? How about Thursday?’

  ‘Tuesday.’ She turned to face him. ‘In the afternoon. If it’s fine, Tuesday afternoon will be all right.’

  ‘Shall I ride up to your cottage, or meet you here? Yes, that’s it, I’ll come up on Merrilegs and collect you! You’ll enjoy that!’

  He noticed his voice did not sound quite the same, though hers did.

  ‘There’s no need, thank you. I will walk down with Joey. Then he can watch you and he can learn. Yes, that’s exactly what he can do.’

  ‘Bet he won’t stay! He’ll have something else up his sleeve.’

  Her face was briefly petulant, then cleared. She quickly shook his hand and was gone through the trees, a retreating cream coat disappearing into the green.

  God Almighty!

  Alfred turned on Taffy.

  ‘That is your fault, you bloody silly stupid animal! Did-you-hear-me?’

  The dog backed carefully away from his fistshake.

  Stanhope Forbes

  ‘Tout le monde peint tellement aujourd’hui comme M. Bastien-Lepage que M. Bastien-Lepage a l’air de peindre comme tout le monde.’

  If Paris did not know whether to follow Manet or Bastien-Lepage, Newlyn had no doubt about their leader: Stanhope Forbes. Respected by artist and fisherman alike, Stanhope Forbes was the centre, rallying point and anchor of the Newlyn Group from 1884, and he founded his audacious school there in 1899. By that time the town was almost an English Concarneau, crammed with painters of every age.