by Tim Jeal
Tom Strickland bent his head as he entered the parlour with its wide beams and low bulging ceiling, and looked around almost with nostalgia at the heavy settles on either side of the open fire and the strange selection of prints on the walls: race horses, theatrical scenes, mezzotints of Radical Members. The barman and the pot-boy were lounging behind the bar, but busied themselves when the landlord, a bald corpulent man with an impressive bunch of watch-seals at his fob, came in. He nodded to a farmer in a broad-brimmed hat and coarse pepper-and-salt trousers stuffed into muddy gaiters, and then, catching sight of Tom, beckoned to him and led him behind the bar to a small snuggery or private parlour.
Magnus rose smiling from a chair in the chimney-corner. A small table was laid with a white cloth and lit by wax candles; on a sideboard sherry and madeira were comfortably airing themselves. Tom had originally been asked to dine, but wanting to leave the town that evening for Manchester to be able to make an early start for London the following morning, he had accepted for lunch instead. Magnus, to Tom’s amazement, was wearing an embroidered smoking jacket over a fine lawn shirt with ruby studs. The effect was more striking since Magnus’s arm was still in a sling. Without speaking he handed Tom a sherry cobbler and raised his own glass. After a moment’s silence he smiled.
‘The future, Tom, and damn the past.’
They both drank and then sat down by the fire. Magnus handed Tom a box of cigars and pushed a low stool under his feet. For the first time since their meeting at the Independent’s offices, Tom was carried along by Magnus’s light-hearted mood.
‘Well?’ asked Magnus.
‘Your clothes,’ laughed Tom.
Magnus lit a cigar from a candle and struck an elegant pose in front of the fire.
‘I sent a man for them to Leaholme Hall. Your last day in Rigton Bridge. Special occasions demand the right rig. Didn’t you know what a swell I was before I went abroad? Morning gowns with tassels as large as bell-pulls.’
‘I’ve hardly met anyone less foppish.’
‘Ceylon wasn’t a place for dandies, I admit.’ He puffed at his cigar. ‘No, the point’s symbolic, my dear Strickland … the resurrection of Magnus Crawford, late of the Ceylon Rifles. A few days ago I was ready to crawl out of this town like a whipped dog. Now here I am in my best bib and tucker, ready to face the future as squarely as a man can.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Later,’ said Magnus, raising his glass. ‘Drink up and I’ll tell you something amusing. When Lord Goodchild wanted to keep a railway coach to himself, he used to travel with a boy dressed-up as a chimney sweep. Isn’t that admirable in a way? He also used to offer maiden ladies cigars if he thought them religious.’ Tom did his best to laugh, but could not forget Helen Goodchild’s arrival at the Swan shortly before her husband’s death. ‘Of course,’ Magnus continued, noticing Tom’s slight reserve, ‘I realise that eccentricity like that depends on an excellent income and a degree of self-confidence unusual except in madmen, so don’t be hard on me. I knew a lot of fledgling Goodchilds at Oxford – their greatest accomplishments being to get roaring drunk and then wrench off door-knockers or trip up elderly watchmen; a real wit might bark like a dog in college prayers. I like to think I survived my education rather well. It’s a great consolation to know how hard it’d be to be sillier than one was.’
‘Don’t English gentlemen always like a challenge?’ asked Tom with a smile.
‘Enough of your mockery, sir,’ replied Magnus, pointing his cigar reprovingly at Tom.
Lunch – the most lavish the Bull had provided for many months – consisted of soup, game, neck of mutton and turnips, followed by Stilton and celery. The maid who served had coal-black ringlets, which Magnus said reminded him of gigantic leeches, and Tom suggested would make her an excellent model for Medusa. Afterwards when the cloth had been removed and port and madeira set in place‚ Magnus returned to the fire and sat on the fender.
‘What’ll you do when you’re back in London?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders.
‘Pay off some debts and then … I know what I want to do, but I’ll have to paint some hideous anecdotal subject for the Academy first – a homely and edifying scene. The gambling husband ruined and repentant, his wife tearfully forgiving … or perhaps something from literature. There’s a black crossing-sweeper in Charlotte Street who’ll do very well as Othello.’
‘What happens if the Academy refuses it?’
‘There’s the British Institution or the Portland. Prices are bad, the hanging worse; but pictures get sold.’ Tom drank some port and pushed back his chair. ‘Failing that, I’ll be back to woodcuts for periodicals, restoring stained glass or doing two-guinea portraits. I’ve given young ladies lessons in water colour before now.’
‘Don’t you mind that?’ asked Magnus.
‘Of course.’
‘Well then, if the Academy Exhibition is the main chance, why not do three or four for it?’
Tom laughed and cast up his eyes.
‘They take time, and time calls for money.’
Magnus looked at him with excitement and said urgently:
‘I’ve lost you a patron, the least I can do is see you get another. I’ll help you. When you sell the pictures, pay me back. With what I won from George and baubles like these,’ he went on, pointing to his ruby studs, ‘I’ve over a thousand to be going on with.’
Tom looked at Magnus with astonishment.
‘You’ve never even seen my work.’
‘I’m no art critic. I’m sure Joseph Braithwaite’s standards were exacting.’
‘But his taste’s abominable.’
‘All the better,’ replied Magnus easily. ‘You satisfied him so you must be versatile.’ He called for another bottle of port and sat down in the chair next to Tom. ‘How do artists make money?’
‘Society portraits or the sale of engraving rights.’ He paused and looked at Magnus almost angrily. ‘I can’t take your money. I’d have left Braithwaite anyway. Of course I’d have liked a commission from Lady Goodchild, but I’m still better off than I’ve often been in the past.’
‘But you can’t do what you want,’ objected Magnus. ‘You said that.’
‘How many people can?’
‘That isn’t at issue.’
‘But I’ll tell you what is,’ cried Tom. ‘Everything changes if I take your money. Surely you see that?’
‘Tom,’ murmured Magnus, shaken by his outburst, ‘I shan’t need more than four hundred in the next year. I’ll be starting a new career.’
‘Then you’ll need everything you’ve got.’
‘Not if I succeed. If you’re only worried about accepting anything from me in case I fail….’
‘That isn’t it at all.’
‘Then prove it by accepting my offer,’ said Magnus soothingly. ‘If I make a good living, the loan won’t matter; if I don’t, I’ll have to try something else anyway. Look, if two people trying to do the same sort of thing stick together, the struggle must be easier. If you’re ever in a position to lend me money, I won’t refuse out of misplaced pride.’
‘Because you won’t be me.’ Tom looked away. ‘I’ll tell you the job I hated most. To pay my mother’s doctor’s bills I worked for a coach-builder painting coats-of-arms and crests on carriage doors; I wonder if your father used to order from that firm? Of course I’m grateful to you, and I know there’s no condescension in the offer, but it makes no difference.’
Tom’s blushing embarrassment considerably distressed Magnus, who had never intended that he should feel in any way beholden to him.
‘I can assure you,’ he said quietly, ‘that few younger sons take much pride in their position; too poor to marry in their own class, too snobbish to marry out of it, endlessly striving to keep up appearances on inadequate funds … poor things, they have little reason to feel superior to anyone. Being one myself, I ought to know.’
Magnus saw Tom’s expression soften, but he still seemed perplexed.
‘I’ll need somewhere to stay until I find rooms.’
‘Charlotte Street isn’t St James’s,’ said Tom with a smile.
‘Nor were the paddy fields of Ceylon.’
Magnus caught Tom’s eye and he smiled involuntarily.
‘The stove smokes, the sky-light leaks, and the studio hasn’t been cleaned out for years.’
‘I hate being tidy,’ laughed Magnus.
‘Army officers have no servants to tidy for them?’ asked Tom with quizzical amusement.
‘They run their masters’ lives. I like the idea of an independent existence.’ Magnus smiled. ‘I’m sure we could run to a maid-of-all-work. See who’s doing the begging now, Mr Strickland.’
Before Tom could answer, the landlord came in and announced that a lady had come to see Mr Crawford. Moments later Tom and Magnus rose as Catherine entered. She recognised Tom’s presence in the room by a slight inclination of the head and then turned to her brother.
‘Magnus, I must speak with you.’
‘Of course, Kate,’ he replied, offering her a chair. She glanced meaningfully in Tom’s direction, but Magnus refused the hint.
‘Perhaps Mr Strickland will excuse us,’ she said reluctantly.
‘Unless what you have to say is….’
‘Very well,’ she cut in impatiently. ‘Father’s been asking why you haven’t been home to see him.’
‘Dear father, can’t he wait a little longer to tell me I’m a fool to have left Ceylon?’
‘Couldn’t he just want to see you? You were away a long time and he is your father.’
‘Then I’m sure he won’t have forgotten that I went away because he wanted it.’
Catherine was wearing a mantle of green and cream shot silk and Tom noticed the way she was twisting the fringed edge, as though nervous or upset.
‘You still ought to come back, unless you want Charles to have everything his own way.’
‘He will anyway.’
Magnus’s bland replies infuriated Catherine. How easy for him to spend his time as he pleased, drinking with friends, going where he wished. She resented the fact that he had delayed his return to Leaholme Hall, when a moment’s reflection would have told him that she would need his support on their father’s homecoming.
‘Charles has told father that I refused George because of your lies.’
‘And you set him right?’
‘You know what he’s like,’ she said with unconcealed exasperation, turning coldly to Tom. ‘You see what a united family we are, Mr Strickland.’ The sadness and anger in her voice made Tom wish that he had after all left the room. Magnus took his sister’s arm.
‘I’ll come tomorrow, Kate. Now don’t be so stern or Mr Strickland will think you’re always like it. Do you think father might like to sit for his portrait? Thanks to me, Tom lost the opportunity to paint Mrs Braithwaite.’
‘I’m not wholly disappointed,’ Tom replied softly.
Magnus thought for a moment and then smiled.
‘She always reminds me, with those tight waists of hers, of a sausage tied in the middle, the meat moving where it may.’
‘Even the iron dictates of fashion cannot quite repeal the laws of nature,’ Tom answered with a smile.
‘I heard that you were to paint Lady Goodchild,’ said Catherine abruptly.
‘Her ladyship took another view of the matter.’ He turned to Magnus. ‘I should have told you, she wrote thanking me for riding out to Hanley Park that evening. Your brother, Miss Crawford, told me to go for her.’
Catherine smiled briefly at Magnus.
‘I fancy Charles might have needed less persuasion, or does Mr Strickland not know about our brother’s devotion to her ladyship?’ She turned to Tom with mocking politeness. ‘But perhaps you do not share Charles’s opinion of Lady Goodchild’s looks? As an artist would you call her beautiful?’
‘As an artist, I would like to have painted her.’
Catherine laughed brightly.
‘Artists like to paint all manner of things … cows by a river, ships at sea. You’re very diplomatic, Mr Strickland. Did you ever have dealings with George Braithwaite when you painted his father?’
‘He talked to me sometimes.’
‘Did you think him the fool Magnus does?’ she asked sharply.
‘For God’s sake, Kate,’ interrupted Magnus angrily. ‘How can you possibly expect an answer to that?’
‘You refused to speak to me alone, so can have no secrets from him. Should he not repay the compliment?’
‘I should not have stayed; I apologise, Miss Crawford.’ Tom bowed slightly and picked up his hat. Magnus jumped up.
‘You were my guest and I made no such request and make none now. Accuse me of discourtesy, if you must, Kate.’
Catherine sighed and lowered her head.
‘Perhaps if you were at home with Charles and father you might make some allowance, Magnus. I’m sorry, Mr Strickland.’
When Magnus returned from seeing his sister to her carriage, he stood in silence by the window for a moment.
‘Unhappy people often say things they later regret.’
‘I’m not offended. Your sister thinks me her inferior and treated me accordingly.’
‘I’m sure not. She envies Helen Goodchild’s freedom, resents me for neglecting her, felt humiliated at speaking about father in front of you. I was a fool; but she chose her moment badly.’
‘It’s kind of you to make excuses for her, but I really don’t mind.’ Tom laughed suddenly. ‘Imagine if I were to fall in love with her and she with me … I wonder what sort of a welcome your father would give me. Why pretend the world isn’t as it is? While I was in Paris, a good many gentlemen who had read Murger’s Vie de Bohème came to the ateliers to live like artists…’
‘But they had plenty of money and the artists had none. Don’t make things even worse than they are, Tom. If you think I’m as stupid, we may as well forget what I said earlier.’
‘Why should I?’ asked Tom, smiling at Magnus. ‘Don’t ask me why, but I’ve decided to accept your offer; nothing would be very different if I refused, except that I’d lose an opportunity. If you do come to Charlotte Street you’ll hate it, but that’s your affair.’
‘I see, you’ve decided to take advantage of me because Catherine was rude to you.’
‘Perhaps, but really I can’t remember why I thought of refusing. The wine, I think…. I’m very grateful too.’
Magnus shook his head, confused by Tom and yet pleased that he had changed his mind.
‘Although of course I may ask you to paint my crest several times a day and expect you at all times to remain my most humble and obedient servant.’
‘Which is why I’m so grateful,’ muttered Tom with feigned servility.
‘Deference in the blood.’
‘No escaping it, sir.’
When Tom had gone, Magnus dozed in front of the fire. Occasionally noises from the tavern parlour or the stable-yard roused him and he tried without much success to recall the precise manner in which Tom had made his decision. Instead he imagined he saw his pale alert face and sensitive eyes and was happy to think that they would soon meet again. In his mind he pictured the engine looming out of the morning mist and the roofs and chimneys of Rigton Bridge slipping away into the past, as the train, flying its long banner of smoke, sped across the soaring arches of the viaduct towards the open country. The recollection that he had promised to see his father only briefly interrupted his contemplation of the future.
18
On entering the library at Leaholme Hall, Magnus saw his father writing at the round table in the window. When Sir James rose and came towards him, Magnus’s dominant feeling was embarrassment. As his father took his hands and gazed at him, he still could think of nothing to say. All the while he felt unpleasantly conscious of his sling and the gashes on his cheek and forehead.
&
nbsp; ‘You’ve changed, Magnus, and I don’t just mean your injuries.’
‘You look just the same,’ replied Magnus, aware of the banality of their greeting. Could they really do no better after seven years? As he looked at his father, he was not even sure that he had spoken the truth. Still the same thick grey hair, flecked with silver at the temples and side-whiskers; his mouth as firm, and his jaw as decisive – once again reminding Magnus of the sculpted heads of certain Roman emperors, with flawlessly chiselled features and short-cut hair brushed forwards; but in his heavily-lidded eyes there seemed a softer almost sad expression.
At first, while they spoke in safe generalities about the election riots and the strangeness of returning home after a long period away, Magnus’s uneasiness persisted, but gradually it dawned upon him that his father also felt tense. One trait, which he remembered well, was the casualness with which his father wore civilian clothes: his cravat loosely tied, and a cream silk embroidered waistcoat worn with a faded morning coat. Fastidious in many ways, especially about punctuality, Sir James also had the slightly negligent air often possessed by men used to having everything done for them, and never exposed to any personal criticism. After a short silence, Sir James frowned and said in a low gruff voice:
‘You still bear me a grudge, I daresay?’
‘Because you sent me away?’ The admiral nodded. ‘You paid my debts, I had no cause to complain.’
Sir James, who had been resting against the table, stood up and shook out the tails of his coat.
‘So you don’t think I had too little sympathy for youthful weakness?’
‘I don’t think youth ever had much charm for you,’ replied Magnus with a smile. ‘Your own may have, but mine certainly never did … what little you saw of it anyway.’
Sir James pursed his lips and gazed past Magnus at the vellum and calf-bound books in the shelves on either side of the doors. His eyes looked distant and sad.
‘I often thought if your mother had lived….’ He broke off almost angrily and shook his head. ‘In life, like chess, one can’t take back the moves already played.’ He sat down and absently drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. ‘Charles says you’re not going back to Ceylon.’
