Michael opened a pad of paper on the kitchen table. The clock ticked and Rations, Felicity’s cat, jumped up on to his lap and began to purr, kneading the twill of Michael’s trousers. Pushing him down, Michael stuck one pencil behind his ear, twirled another like a small baton and, whistling, began to draw.
Arthur Castleton would be here in half an hour to make a start in the old sail-drying shed in the garden of the cottage. Felicity needed a studio with a table, a place to make her paintings into silk screens, and Michael wanted to make it perfect for her. He had a hunch his own carpentry skills would not be enough and had enlisted Arthur’s help. Arthur was introduced to him by Paul Spencer. Arthur made frames and supplied materials for a number of the artists in this part of Cornwall. There were a lot of them, there always had been. Many had dispersed for the war’s duration and, like animals emerging from hibernation, they were re-forming their communities, shaking and stretching themselves as they began to find a way to live in the new post-war world.
Last week, on Felicity’s day off, she and Michael had caught the train to St Ives and walked up through the zig-zag streets where the houses were stacked like a staircase to the wide expanse of view at the top. Over the brow of the hill the town tumbled to the brink of the sea, old stone buildings standing squat but solid with their windows blank, waiting to return to peacetime use. The whitewashed, crumbling space of the Porthmeor Studios stood above a sandy beach. Along the shore, the sand was latticed with criss-crossing chains mooring fishing boats, interspersed with canvasses pegged out to dry like sails.
Felicity was excited, dragging Michael by the hand when he paused to look at the building. ‘Come on, let’s see who’s around. I used to come to drawing classes here,’ she giggled and put her hand over her mouth. ‘God, the first time I came, I’ll never forget it, I was so embarrassed. We drew a naked man.’
Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you indeed? What sort of naked man? Old? Fat? Strong? Handsome?’ He loved seeing Felicity laugh. If love was wanting the very best out of life for someone, and being prepared to help them have that, then he loved her with his whole heart.
She leaned forward and placed her forefinger on his chest, tracing his collarbone under his shirt, laughing into his eyes so he couldn’t help kissing her. ‘Old of course. We never had young models, and the week I was going to do it was the beginning of the war so it didn’t happen.’
‘Just as well,’ said Michael. ‘I wouldn’t like to think of a whole class staring at you with nothing on.’
‘Don’t be such a prude,’ she laughed, opening a side door to the studios. ‘Come and see what they’ve got on the walls today. You know, during the war these studios almost closed down, but now it looks as though they’re thriving again.’
Michael thought the building looked about to fall down, with its rusting tin roof and lichen growing up the walls, but inside the smell of turps and linseed and the white light as crisp and clear as folded linen created an atmosphere so rarefied Michael felt it could almost be sanctified. In its stillness and simplicity it reminded him of visits he had made to rural churches through the long months in Sicily at the end of the war. Until now, he had thought that a place had to be ecclesiastical to create the particular atmosphere summoned by a dazzle of whitewash and warped old glass in windows the size of walls. To Michael, the studios were utterly fascinating. Light poured in on all sides, filling the plain wood-lined spaces above disused pilchard salting cellars, and net-makers’ sheds. Some of the doors were open, and varying degrees of chaos were visible within. Stacked canvasses, brushes stuffed into jars, sprays of paint like blood, caught and dried on the walls.
An exhibition in a nearby crypt was hung with a selection of paintings by local artists including Paul and others in his circle of friends. Michael felt quite out of his depth. He had never seen anything like it. The idea of an artist going somewhere to work and doing it as a job hadn’t ever crossed his mind before he came to Cornwall. Now he came to think of it, he supposed they didn’t all sit around with easels in the middle of the countryside, but the idea of them forming a community and setting up work alongside one another to kick ideas around, was a novel one to him. He found almost everything associated with Felicity was like this, a new thought, a way of looking at things that had not occurred to him before. Sometimes he felt that he was no more than a sponge. Sometimes he wondered if he believed in fate. One thing he was sure of was that he was meant to be here, for now.
Felicity stopped outside one of the studios, the door was open. ‘You know, my mother worked here before she had me and Christopher. This studio was hers, look, I’ve got a picture.’ She fumbled in the basket she had brought to carry their lunch, and held out a photograph for him to look at. Felicity’s eyes were intent on the picture, though Michael was sure she could feel his gaze on her face. ‘She was good, but she didn’t really know it, that’s what people who knew her always said. I tried to get her to paint more. She always said she would when she had more time, but I think my father dying stopped her in her tracks.’
‘Let me see.’ He was behind her, Felicity leaned into him. He loved that about her, the way she would stand, as if shielded by him, and when her body was near his, the warmth between them felt like the biggest connection it was possible to have with another person. The photograph was bordered with a lacy frame, small and crumpled. A young woman in man’s trousers and a white shirt, slight, with dark hair piled up, face solemn, looked out at him from a clapboard room, an easel beside her, paintings leaning against the wall.
‘She looks like you.’ He scrutinised the photograph. ‘What happened to that picture? It’s a lot bigger than the one of you Verity had, or any I’ve seen in your house. Come to think of it, there aren’t many are there?’
Felicity sighed. ‘My mother was quite successful when she was young. There’s a big mural she did with some other artists in the library in Penzance. I think she sold some over the years, and had work in a couple of shows. That’s how Dad met her, he came over from St Austell to look at the famous St Ives school of art.’
Felicity took the photograph back and put it in her bag again. She peered through the door. ‘I think she wished she had done more work. That was her only real regret. Apart from Christopher, of course. She died of a broken heart, it was as simple, and sad as that.’ She walked down the corridor in front of Michael, her footsteps echoing on the boards, then paused at a door, knocking gently. ‘I did some drawing in here with another painter for a while. It was very cheap because it’s got no window, but then Ben Nicolson took it on, he actually wanted a studio with no daylight, can you imagine?’ Michael did not speak. He realised he was holding his breath and let go a huge sigh full of sorrow for Felicity’s mother, and her broken heart. Felicity opened the door and Michael looked past her into the room. It was simple and sparse, an enamel stove, a long table, jars full of brushes again and a chair covered in a crocheted blanket. One painting hung on the end wall, white shapes piled in front of one another, soothing, mysterious. Michael stared at it, the clean lines, the compelling shapes. He thought of the paintings in his parents’ house. An oil landscape of the Norfolk Broads, a painting of three spaniels following a rider through woodland. He’d never taken much notice of art before he met Felicity, but suddenly he found his curiosity roused. There might be painters like this in Norfolk. Was there an art movement there? Were there people like Felicity where he came from? He couldn’t imagine that there were. He couldn’t imagine that anyone else could ever be like her.
On the beach when they had left, Michael put his arm around her. ‘You need somewhere of your own to work,’ he said. ‘You need a studio. Let me build you one.’
The wind blew up, and as they walked a sudden rain shower splashed big drops on to their faces. Felicity paused and tied a scarf over her head, then ran to catch up. ‘Oh I wish it were possible. I’ve got so many things to make and paint and do. I want to design fabric. The bookshop takes all my time and it was never my dr
eam, it was Christopher’s. I had to do it for him and for Dad, but I want to create things that come to life around me, that are used for something. Not just buy and sell books to gather dust in people’s houses.’ The rain stopped, pulled out to sea on a gust of wind. Felicity unwound her scarf, and it fluttered, a white and yellow banner. ‘Like this,’ she waved it. ‘Look at the pattern! Someone made this. Why not me?’
Her spirit touched Michael. She was unlike any woman he had met. Not that he’d met many. What he meant was that she wasn’t like Janey, she was so independent, and yet she needed him. He could build her studio. He could help her make her place in the world she longed to go to in her work.
She stuffed the scarf in her pocket, walking backwards in front of him down the beach. ‘I’ve been thinking and thinking, sitting in that shop all day every day. I feel as if I’m closing myself down when I’m there. I’m in a trance, not really living at all.’ She laughed and twirled around in front of him, arms stretched. ‘Come on, catch me!’ Pulling off her shoes she began to run down the beach away from him.
Michael watched her. His mother called his father ‘dear’. She kept the house and cooked and sat by the radio, silently sewing. Michael had never seen her display an emotion or utter a wish in her life. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her run or jump, and the only time she had ever danced in front of him was at a Christmas party given by some neighbours when he was thirteen and he had been so embarrassed he hid in the cloakroom, inhaling essence of mothball and fur until his father fetched him to go home. This was uncharted territory, and Michael felt a barrier collapse within him. Stopping to kick off his own shoes, he chased her, laughing as he felt the cool damp of sand underfoot and the exhilaration of the wind in his face. He caught up with her by the water and grabbed her.
‘Come here,’ his voice was husky and he pulled her close. He wanted to shelter her inside his coat with him, and when he kissed her, his blood thrilled through him, waking every nerve, every bone so he pulsed with the excitement of life. In that moment, he knew with a clarity that he would never forget, that he loved her. They left the beach and walked back through narrow streets, past low eaves and windows closed to the summer storm.
Michael drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it, ‘I’m going to help you like you’ve helped me, I promise you.’
He drew swiftly, turning the page to look back, reaching for cigarette after cigarette, smoking them without looking up from his work. He wanted the conversion of the sail shed to be perfect. The Porthmeor studios had beamed roof space and skylights and chimneys for their wood stoves. The old sail-drying shed had the light and height Felicity needed, all Michael had to do was make sure it could accommodate screen-printing tables. The kitchen clock whirred and chimed before he put down his pencil. Arthur would be here any minute. He stretched in a shaft of sunlight in the hall. The sensual pleasure of the sun on his skin catapulted his thoughts to the night before. The bed a tangle of sheets, Felicity’s slip silk soft on her thigh, shadows touching her breasts when he woke before dawn. The curtains were open, the moon rode high and fast above the sea, and the night sky was crafted for excitement. Michael looked at her a long time then, her hair curling like a mermaid’s on the pillow, her face so peaceful in sleep. He kissed her, breathed her sweet breath, heard her gasp as he shifted his weight on top of her. Her arms opened, her back arched and she moved her hips towards him, skin soft like a peach, like sunshine, like a languorous river, like everything he’d ever loved or yearned for. Her hands were cool on his neck, in his hair, their faces were close together, eyes locked in the moonlight.
Michael heard a step, and with an effort brought his thoughts back to now, this morning and the studio. He strode to the open door.
‘Morning Michael.’ The gate swung shut behind the slight figure of Arthur Castleton. Michael jumped, reddening as if he had been caught in the act. Come to think of it, he had been, but only the act of thinking. To gain time, he ducked out into the little patch of front garden, looking over the road and down to the sea and walked a couple of steps away before turning to Arthur, patting his shirt pocket.
‘Smoke?’ he offered.
Arthur shook his head. He was breathing heavily. He mopped his face with a large handkerchief. ‘I don’t think I will. I’ve used myself up hill-climbing. It’s a hot business coming up here on a warm day.’ He limped over to Michael, his crippled leg stiff, his walk a swagger to compensate.
Michael nodded, lighting his own cigarette. ‘Looks like rain at last,’ he said. Both men surveyed the view towards Lizard Point.
Arthur squinted then clapped his hands together. ‘Nothing we can ever do about the weather, is there? Better we try and do the things we can. So what’s up here, Michael?’
‘Come and take a look. We’ve got our work cut out, I reckon.’
Since forming the intention to make Felicity’s studio, Michael had found a new sense of purpose to his days. He knew it wasn’t permanent, he didn’t belong here, he wasn’t an artist and never would be, but nonetheless, he had changed. The Michael Marker who had left Norfolk for the war was idealistic and cerebral, with little experience of the world. Where was he now? Shed, like a snake’s skin, somewhere far away and forgotten. Since his pre-war life within the cocoon of his family, he had seen much that he wanted to forget, and experienced enough to change him for ever. He was still changing. Life could turn, or end, on a sixpence, that much he knew, and little more. Right now, he was an important part of Felicity’s world. He wasn’t going home yet. Far from it, he was building his sweetheart this studio so that she could make the silk screens she needed for her fabric. His role was taking shape. A plan had been formulating as he and Arthur worked. He could build the structures, create the space that Felicity and her friends needed. He wasn’t a bad carpenter, Arthur was good too. Michael liked his methodical approach and his unruffled demeanour. He opened the rotting door to the sail room. A pane of glass fell out of it, Arthur caught it before it shattered on the ground.
‘This’ll need taking off to fix up.’ He placed the glass gently against the wall. He tapped at the door frame, frowned and moved inside to look at the whole room.
Michael followed him. ‘We cleared it out the other day, the damp’s drying out now we’ve lit that stove. Felicity’s at work, but I hoped we could make some progress so that when she comes home she could use it?’
Arthur crouched to look at a hinge. He squinted up at Michael, ‘You mean you’ve promised her?’ he nodded into Michael’s silence. ‘We’ll sort something out, and she’ll be happy enough.’ He passed a frame covered in cobwebs to Michael, ‘Makes sense she’d want a studio for her work’ he said thoughtfully, ‘Her mother was some kind of artist. Done a big painting in the library in Penzance of the White Star wreck. Way back in 1907 I think it was. They saved almost five hundred lives that day, and my grandfather was among the lifeboat men. It’s a great painting. That Felicity’ll be right talented I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Yes, she’ll make her mark,’ said Michael, and pride stuffed his chest. Felicity, his sweetheart. A talented artist. She wasn’t just his sweetheart. He lived in her house, they were lovers. No one seemed to bother that they weren’t married, he couldn’t imagine the same state of affairs in Norfolk. Michael thought of the drawings and small paintings Felicity was working on. She had canvasses propped on chairs and watercolour paper tucked under the corner of looking-glass frames around the house. Delicate illustrations sprung to life with colour and charm.
He was eager to talk about her, ‘She’s talented, all right. She wants to make a business out of her designs, and we’ve got a couple of hours today to get started on making some benches and shelves for her.’
‘It’s not a lot of time, but we can make a start.’
By lunchtime Arthur had patched up the crumbling roof beam, made good the door and had gone off to fetch a particular saw he needed for the shelving he would work on while Michael went to meet Felicity.
U
p on the hill in the late afternoon, Michael lay and dozed, while Felicity, her painting finished, made new sketches, blurring the page with dots of coloured ink. He kept still for a minute or two when he awoke, enjoying the scratch of grasses and the solid earth warm beneath him. It wasn’t sunny: hazy August heat beamed onto his skin and somewhere high above, a skylark sang. Beside him, Felicity’s pictures filled half her sketchbook, quick flurries of colour, shapes as delicate as a cloud of butterflies. He didn’t ask her what she was thinking. He rarely did, in case she asked him the same question. Today he’d intended to talk to her, but the peace of the scene, the fact that he knew the time was coming when he would have to go, the sheer pleasure of being with Felicity and knowing he loved her, all this stopped him. It could wait.
She closed the sketchbook and leaned over him. Freckles dusted the bridge of her nose and the top of her cheeks. Michael could never quite get over how beautiful she was. Whether it was something to do with Cornwall, or being an artist, he wasn’t sure, but Felicity seemed to have a connection with the land and the sea and the weather. She thrived on it. Looking down at him now, her eyes were flecked amber and green like the dappled shade of beech trees. She had her bare legs crossed under her, but she shifted, shaking her skirt, rolling forward to lean on her elbows. Her limbs were tanned reddish gold, her legs were always bare, and the cool touch of her forearm, or a glimpse of the heart-shaped mole on her thigh could make his heart leap. He brushed a crumpled leaf off her shoulder and wound a lock of her hair around his thumb. It was glossy, dark as black treacle. Michael wondered if he was experiencing the beginning of an artistic sensibility within himself.
‘I could paint you, I reckon. I’ve got an idea how I’d do it. I might draw you first.’ As soon as the words were out, he wanted to unsay them, they were so foolish. Him! A painter. Absurd.
From a Distance Page 15
