Tyringham Park

by Rosemary McLoughlin

  It was moments such as these that made Cormac feel his tutoring had been a success. She had been guided by him early on but was now following her own path and the only aspects of her work that now showed his influence were the exuberant brushstrokes and impasto, which they both favoured but used differently.

  When she was with Cormac she left aside Tyringham Park as a theme and concentrated on urban subjects – streetscapes, bridges, locks, façades, railings, warehouses, gravestones, churches, interiors, houses – but came in so close with her viewpoint that it was difficult to identify exactly what the subjects were, as they looked like puzzles of abstract rather than concrete shapes, with the close tonal values and limited palette infusing them with a quiet harmony.

  “There,” she said, sighed, put her brush into the turpentine and placed the painting at a distance, staring at it with her head cocked to one side. “Would you say it’s finished?”

  “I would, and it’s masterly. That’s the only word I can use to describe it. Masterly. This area on the left is a touch of genius.”

  Charlotte couldn’t hide her pleasure.

  He continued to stare at the painting and Charlotte was gratified to see his expression was one of undisguised admiration. He was a severe critic so a look like that meant a lot to her.

  “What a gifted little party you are!” His voice had turned serious. “Just think. You have exceptional horsemanship, so I’ve heard. That’s one. An ear for languages – you’re now speaking French like a native. That’s two. And now, to top it all, you’re passing me out as an artist. Would you not think that’s an embarrassing excess of riches?”

  “You forgot to mention being useless at arithmetic and English composition and having two left feet and being tone deaf.”

  “Accept the fact that you have talents and be grateful for them and stop running yourself down. That’s my lecture for the day. Now I have a surprise for you.”

  “Another foreign ship in the docks that we have to visit?”

  “Nothing like that this time. Something completely different. How would you like to give me four of those sombre, boring cityscapes of yours –”

  “Not to be confused with those contorted, garish, chopped-up nudes of yours . . .”

  Cormac laughed. He encouraged, even goaded her to be outspoken, and enjoyed it when she was, though he warned her that this was acceptable only in the classroom. Outside it she would be wise to exercise restraint and decorum, and speak in the way Aunt Verity instructed her.

  “For exhibition. To mark your sixteenth birthday.”

  “Me? Exhibit? Do you mean it? How is that possible?”

  Cormac told her that the Society of Emerging Painters had secured an extra room this year for their annual exhibition.

  Charlotte already knew of the Society, as Cormac was a member of it and had exhibited with it for the last six years, but couldn’t see what news of it had to do with her.

  To fill the extra space, Cormac explained, each member could invite one young student of promise and genuine merit to hang in the show, giving greater publicity to an already popular event.

  “So of course I thought of you. Who else? A parting gift to you before you go off to Paris. Well, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Charlotte looked excited and apprehensive in turns. “I think I’d like it. What would I have to do?”

  “You wouldn’t have to do anything except paint the pictures. I’ll arrange everything else.”

  “What if I’m not good enough and everyone laughs at me?”

  “Trust me, my little apprentice, no one will be laughing. Madly jealous, more like.”

  Charlotte’s frown deepened. “I don’t think my mother would allow it.”

  “She doesn’t have to know. I’ll deal with everything. It’s not as if you’re a child any more – you’ll be married in a couple of years’ time, for God’s sake! I’m sure your father will give his permission now that he's back home.”

  “My father?” She was so used to not considering him, it was now an effort.

  “Remember how he and I met?” Cormac went on. “I told you. The War Office. His drawings all over the place. We got talking. Later he asked me to become your tutor as he didn’t want your artistic gifts going to waste.”

  “Did he? You never told me that before. I didn’t know he’d seen any of my work.”

  “Apparently your old housekeeper kept everything you did and showed it to him.”

  “But I was only a child!”

  “He said he could see the promise even then.”

  “Well, imagine, I never knew, but I still don't want him to come because that means Mother and Aunt Verity would come as well, and I couldn't bear that.”

  “If that's the way you feel, we'll leave it as it is. Just me exhibiting as usual. They've never been interested in my work before and completely ignore my invitations every year, so you're safe enough. Pity in a way. I think your father would enjoy it.” He smiled at her. “Can I leave you then to do three more on a similar theme to the one you’ve just finished, to be ready in eight weeks?”

  Charlotte looked at Cormac with open gratitude.

  He was moved, and on impulse, in the manner he always greeted his young siblings, put his good arm around her shoulder and kissed her on the top of the head. “Just as well I’ll be leaving soon,” he said, “before my little apprentice overtakes me and becomes my teacher, filling me with resentment. Come on now – back to work. Good Lord, it’s two o’clock already. I’m off. See you in the morning.”

  Back in his studio, he thought to himself how lucky he’d been to have been given this position six years earlier, allowing him time to discover a distinctive style and amass over two hundred works that would be invaluable to him when he returned to Paris.

  How lucky, as well, that Charlotte had a natural aptitude and that their personalities suited each other so that his years spent as a teacher were enjoyable in their own right.

  He could hardly believe she was the same person as the fat little melancholiac he’d seen on his first day at the townhouse. She could never be described as beautiful or even pretty, but after maturation had brought a pleasing balance to her features, she had acquired something more significant than either beauty or prettiness – a striking, arresting originality that would excite admiration in anyone who saw her.

  37

  “What will I wear?” asked Charlotte on the day of the opening.

  “Anything you like,” said Cormac. “You’re an artist now, don’t forget, so you can get away with anything, though a few woman painters I know seem to favour floaty, colourful things, probably to match their paintings, if that’s any help to you. I presume that means you should wear black and grey armour.”

  “Very funny. I’ll have a look through all the classic stuff in the trunks upstairs and see what I can come up with. Are you sure no one knows?”

  “Quite sure. I said to your aunt it was a group show the same as always and tried to make it sound as boring as possible. I didn’t tell a lie – just an omission of fact. I didn’t say ‘Charlotte won’t be hanging’ or anything like that.”

  She was losing track of the conversation as she was becoming jittery.

  “It would have been safer not to give any invitations,” he went on, “but then by Murphy’s Law they’d surely find out from someone in this small city, and then I’d be in strife. Better this way. If they –”

  “I’ll run up and change,” she cut across him, even though it was only four o’clock.

  By half past five she was ready. Her outfit was black, white and grey. Purely coincidental, she said.

  “You look great. Really great. You did ask if you could come with me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I asked Aunt Verity and she said she couldn’t see any harm in it at this hour and it being only three streets away, though she did look at me in an odd fashion.”

  “No change there, then. Come on, what are we waiting for?”

 
“I’m so nervous.” She kept dropping the hem of her cloak and tripping on it. “What if everyone’s paintings except mine are sold?”

  “That won’t happen, but even if it does, no one knows who you are, so just look unconcerned.”

  “What if people are standing around them and laughing?” She looked up at him. “What’s the big grin for? Do you know something?”

  “Just nerves,” he said. “It never gets easier, you know. It might be my seventh showing, but I’m on tenterhooks, just as you are. Wait until you have a solo show and then you’ll know what nerves are all about.”

  They arrived and looked through the front Georgian window.

  “There aren’t many there,” said Charlotte, finding it difficult to speak as her mouth had gone dry.

  “Give it time. It’s only a quarter past six, and it’s on until eight. Some people like to miss the opening speech in case it’s too long-winded. Come on, now. Deep breath.” He pushed open the door.

  There were bright lights and a din of voices, even though there were only about twenty people there.

  “Where are yours?” asked Charlotte, looking for her own.

  “Upstairs – I have a whole wall to myself. I was in this afternoon to check. But let’s look around here first.”

  Charlotte pretended to look at the other paintings but they merged into a blur. She couldn’t scan the whole room at once because of alcoves, partitions and people, up to forty in number by now.

  “There you are, Cormac,” said a voice behind them.

  It was David Slane, the elected President of the Society for the year and, as such, curator and arbiter of this exhibition. “Did you get a glass of wine yet?”

  “No, not yet. We thought we’d have a look around first. David, this is Charlotte Blackshaw of the grey urban landscapes. Charlotte, David Slane, President of the Society.”

  David’s face lit up. “An honour to meet you. You’re causing quite a stir. All sold. Come and see for yourself.”

  “Does he really mean me?” Charlotte whispered to Cormac.

  “Of course he means you,” Cormac smiled. “Don’t look so surprised.”

  David led them to the right-hand wall where Charlotte’s four submissions were grouped in a square with red dots on the white cards beside each one.

  “I had a buyer in this afternoon who threatened my life if I didn’t let him buy all four before the opening, he was so afraid of missing them, and since then there have been three disappointed clients who’ve made me promise to let them know as soon as you show any more of your work. Congratulations and well done. Hard to credit you’re only sixteen – people don’t believe me when I tell them. You’re in good company, you know. Think of the amazing Turner for one, exhibiting at the Royal Academy when he was only fifteen.”

  “Damn!” said Cormac. “If I’d known that I would have entered you earlier.”

  “Not to mention Velázquez, painting ‘Old Woman Cooking Eggs’ when he was nineteen. Can you think of any other early bloomers, Cormac?”

  “Not off the top of my head,” said Cormac. “I didn’t study art history. I had to pick up bits as I went along.”

  “You did well with the bits you picked up, then, judging by your pupil here, and your own work, too, of course.” David turned back to Charlotte. “Think what you’ll be able to achieve in a lifetime, following in their footsteps. Now I must leave you to meet our guest speaker. Congratulations again to both of you. Enjoy the night.” He disappeared into the crowd that was now up to sixty.

  Charlotte couldn’t stop smiling and stayed facing her paintings until her smile contracted to a normal width.

  “Did you hear that? Turner and Velázquez, no less,” Cormac beamed. “Now do you believe you’re talented?”

  “He was talking about age, not skill, so let’s not get any inflated ideas. You knew about the sale, didn’t you?”

  “I did. I happened to be here this afternoon when the deal was done. Your purchaser is a famous collector, apparently, who used an agent to do the negotiations so he couldn’t be identified. Even David Slane doesn’t know who it is, or if he does he’s not saying.”

  “Imagine. I’ll be spending the rest of my life wondering who it could possibly be. And what about yours?” Charlotte really did care about Cormac’s, now that her own were accounted for. “I suppose you know already?”

  “He didn’t buy any of mine if that’s what you’re asking. Come and see.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier and put me out of my misery?” asked Charlotte, as they made their way up to the next floor, while other people were coming down to hear the speech.

  “And spoil that moment? Would you really have wanted that?”

  Charlotte was wondering why she had been so worried in the first place. “Probably not.”

  Cormac’s eight works, much larger than hers, had the gable wall to themselves.

  “Only seven sold,” teased Charlotte. “Oh, dear.” She noticed one of his commanded the same price as four of hers.

  While they were watching, a Society member excused himself when he walked in front of them to place a red dot on the eighth one. “Well done, Cormac,” he said when he turned around. “Full house.”

  Cormac grinned at Charlotte. “That makes two of us.”

  The crowd was being shushed to listen to the speech. Most stood with their heads bowed as if in prayer until it was over. After polite applause, the noise level rose again.

  “Let’s go down and get a glass of wine,” said Cormac.

  It took them a while to negotiate the stairs, as so many were ascending. On the second last step Charlotte’s heel caught in the hem of her skirt and Cormac grabbed her arm to steady her. She was pushed against him by the force of the crowd that now filled the room.

  There was some kind of movement attracting attention at the door.

  “Can you believe it?” said Charlotte, disappearing behind a screen and pulling Cormac after her. “What are we going to do?”

  Aunt Verity had seen them, she was sure. Waldron was busy negotiating the wheelchair and hadn’t looked up yet. Edwina couldn’t be seen through the crowd. With difficulty, space was being made for her and her wheelchair.

  “Is there a back door out of here?” asked Charlotte.

  Cormac was saddened to see Charlotte so unnerved. “They know we’re here, Charlotte, so there’s no point in hiding. Your Aunt Verity must have had her bloodhounds out. Come on. What have you got to feel guilty about?” Cormac made his way through the crowd and Charlotte followed with reluctance.

  “Oh, there you are, Cormac!” said Lord Waldron. “We wondered if we’d find you in this crush. Evening, Charlotte. Are you enjoying the show?”

  There were comments and greetings all round.

  “Where have all these people come from? Who would have thought art could be so popular?”

  “It will thin out any minute, Your Lordship, now that all the business has been done.”

  “Mr Delaney’s are upstairs,” said Charlotte, staying on the side of the group to cut off their view of the right-hand wall where her pictures were hanging. “All sold, too. A wall to himself. You simply must view them.”

  “Clear the way then, Cormac.”

  “That means I won’t be able to see them,” said Edwina.

  “Nonsense,” said Waldron. “Cormac, get another pair of hands.”

  Cormac caught the eye of one of the helpers, called him over and mimed what he wanted him to do.

  “Hold on there, old thing,” said Waldron, who held the handles of the wheelchair so there’d be no tipping backwards or forwards while Cormac took one wheel with his good hand and the helper took hold of the other. People reversed back up the stairs to make room.

  “There!” the three of them said together when they reached the upper floor and placed her down in a smooth movement.

  “Love the Blackshaws . . .”

  Waldron and Verity turned towards the speaker whom they couldn’t locate in
the moving groups.

  “Was someone talking about us?” asked Verity.

  “That’s what I thought but there’s no one I recognise,” said Waldron.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” said Edwina.

  “One’s own name always stands out, so it’s a wonder you didn’t hear it,” said Waldron. “Now, let’s take a look at yours, Cormac.”

  Cormac’s paintings were now facing them: all nudes, five female and three male, in undiluted colours of purple, orange, green, red, yellow and blue, toned down only when they overlapped or seeped into one another. He had avoided the averted heads and anonymity of the bodies being favoured by his contemporaries. Each subject looked straight out from the canvas with an expression of intense engagement with the viewer. A minimum of brushstrokes had been used, forcing the viewer to interpret the artist’s suggestions rather than merely absorbing his statements.

  “These Delaneys deliver a punch,” said a man beside them in evening dress to his companion. “All sold. Pity. I was hoping to add another one to my collection.”

  Waldron wondered if the man was joking. For his own part, he didn’t know what to say. He liked anatomically correct paintings of horses, and landscapes that looked like photographs, and not much else. His subordinates praised his drawings of battle scenes so effusively that he secretly considered himself a real artist, and should have felt the confidence to denounce Cormac’s work as untidy, unrealistic and unfinished, but he was held back by a fear of appearing uninformed in a world in which he wasn’t the master. To fill in time until he could think of something quotable he said “Interesting. Very interesting,” half-closing his eyes and nodding.

  Cormac caught Charlotte’s eye and winked.

  The little group around the wheelchair heard the Blackshaw name mentioned again and gave themselves up to unashamed eavesdropping.

  “First time showing, so I heard. One to watch, definitely.”

  “I wonder who he is?”

  “No idea. Never heard of him.”

  “Come on, let’s have another look at them on the way out.” The party of about ten moved off.