Then the door opened and Max stood in the hallway.
‘Hello,’ said Juliet. ‘We were passing. We’ve come for tea.’
• • •
Max asked no questions. He didn’t ask why they’d come, merely remarking it was rather late for tea and that they might prefer supper. As he boiled eggs and cut thick slices of bread he did not enquire how long they were intending to stay or wonder what had brought them to his cottage on a winter’s night. Juliet was unsure whether he refrained out of politeness or lack of interest. Either way she was glad, as she was not quite sure what to tell him. He did, however, comment on the perm. Almost as soon as they were settled around the kitchen table eating bread and honey, he took a wooden spoon and poked it into the basket of her hair. She squirmed away.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I wanted to know if it’s a wig. It’s very strange.’
Frieda grinned. ‘It was supposed to be a perm. It doesn’t look like that on most women. I bet it would have been okay on me, if I’d been allowed.’
Max nodded and turned to Juliet. ‘You can’t keep it. Not here. It’ll frighten the birds.’
He pointed to the kitchen ceiling where a newly frescoed flock of swifts flitted under the eaves and along the walls. Juliet bristled, irritated that her hair was such a source of general amusement.
‘There’s nothing I can do. I just have to wait until it grows out. If I fiddle with it, it gets worse.’
Max produced a bottle of sloe gin and slid it across the table to her.
‘Have a drink of that. Then dunk your hair in the sink and I’ll cut it all off.’
Juliet was about to object but then she shrugged, pouring herself a measure of purple gin. ‘I suppose it can only be an improvement.’
‘Yes,’ agreed both children, perfectly delighted. It was nearly ten but since Juliet hadn’t noticed, they said nothing to draw her attention to the fact.
Knocking back the gin, Juliet retreated to the sink and, leaning over the basin, sloshed water over her head. It smelled softly of peat and ran rusty red through her fingers. As she straightened, Max wrapped a faded and ancient tea towel around her shoulders and steered her into one of the kitchen chairs.
‘Sit.’
He produced a comb and started to draw it through her hair, warm fingers tickling at the base of her neck. She closed her eyes, soothed by the steady snip-snip of his scissors. His hands smelled faintly of turpentine. The boys had all now switched over to acrylic but there was something familiar and comforting about the scent of oil paint and turps on Max’s skin. She fidgeted in her seat, unable to sit easily while he touched her. Wanting a distraction, she fumbled for her handbag and pulled out a pile of postcards from the summer’s Picasso exhibition at the Tate, fanning them across the kitchen table.
‘I thought you might like these. Since you couldn’t see the actual paintings.’
Max paused mid snip to glance at the postcards. ‘I did see them.’
‘Oh,’ said Juliet recoiling, hurt that he’d come up to town for Picasso but not for her.
‘Not in London. In Paris during the war.’
‘We went to see it eight times,’ said Leonard happily.
‘Ten,’ said Frieda less happily.
‘Charlie and the boys couldn’t talk about anything else,’ said Juliet.
Max smiled. ‘Picasso will do that to you. He haunted me for years.’
‘Not any more?’
‘No. Now there are other ghosts, in different colours.’ He stood back from Juliet and peered down at the postcards. ‘I think something like that would suit you,’ he pointed the scissors at a nude portrait of Picasso’s teenage mistress, Marie-Thérèse, her bare breasts round as teacakes and her pale hair cropped into a fetching, asymmetric bob.
Juliet laughed. ‘Most salons use pages ripped from magazines.’
Max shrugged and turned her to face him, cocking his head to one side like a sparrow. ‘You’re like her. Full of sunshine.’
‘But wearing more clothes.’
Max shot her a smile and Juliet was suddenly aware of the children. Allowing her eyes to close, she relaxed into the warm drowsiness of the kitchen, listening to the metal rhythm of the scissors. The table was soon scattered with chunks of hair, drifting across the postcards like dandelion docks. At last Max paused, scissors held aloft. ‘Well, what do you think, Frieda, Leonard?’
The children turned to stare at Juliet. Leonard grinned and even Frieda smiled.
• • •
They’d been staying with Max for a week, although they only saw him at suppertime. The children slept in the sitting-room on a sofa each, tucked up with itchy horse blankets around their ears, watching the camel frieze plod around the cornicing. Juliet slept in Max’s bedroom. At first she refused but Max made it clear that he would not be in it, so she need not worry either about propriety (trying not to laugh as he said the word) or displacing him – he rarely slept at night and especially not now.
‘Who can sleep when the pink-footed geese and the wild fowl are busy on the marshes?’
Juliet found that she could, perfectly well. His bedroom was sparsely furnished and unlike the rest of the house there were little or no decorative features, only a stylised portrait of a woman in yellowish tones with a long face and heavy-lidded brown eyes. It was an ugly picture and out of place but Max explained that it had been a present from his mother so he’d kept it. The floorboards were plain unvarnished wood, and there was no rug on the floor, just a simple beech bed, large enough for one, and a single chest of drawers in the same style. The room held Max’s smell – linseed oil, paint and the leafy scent of the wood. On her first morning casting around, Juliet realised there was no mirror and she was forced to use the tiny one in her face compact to comb her newly bobbed hair and powder her nose. On the second morning she simply didn’t bother. She spent the days quite alone, the children vanishing after breakfast to hunt wild things in the woods, reappearing breathless and mud-stained for further meals. Frieda, who in London ignored her brother and seemed to be grouching inexorably towards adolescence, reverted to childishness with relief. When she returned from a morning hunting with her cheeks pancaked in mud (‘For camouflage,’ explained Leonard) she met Juliet’s eye, daring her to say something. Juliet did not, relieved to have a reprieve – however temporary – from snarling adolescence. The children neither wanted nor needed her company and Max she hardly saw at all. Sometimes he crept back mid-morning, slipping upstairs to the bedroom where he would sleep in Juliet’s sheets until supper. Other days he didn’t return to the house until dark, his clothes coated in leaf litter and snatches of hedge.
One morning Juliet woke to find the house silent. Max had not returned from his nocturnal ramblings while the children had already disappeared into the heart of the wood. She came downstairs in Max’s dressing gown, her fingers not reaching the end of his long sleeves. After making tea, she sat in the quiet of the kitchen for an hour, listening to the rustle and knock of the trees. A little later she heard the sudden scuffle of a car engine, followed by silence and footsteps. She waited for the knock at the door but after a few minutes there was nothing. Intrigued, she padded to the hall and opened the front door to find a tall, rather thin man leaving a pair of canvases propped against the wall.
‘Hello,’ she said and the man jumped, clearly startled to see a woman appear on the porch. ‘I’m Juliet. A friend of Max’s.’
‘Tom. Hopkins. Also a friend of Max,’ said the man. He studied her for a moment before reaching out and shaking her hand.
‘Is Max here? I’ve something for him.’
‘No, I’m sorry. He’s on one of his walks. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. Come inside and have some tea. I’ve made a pot.’
Tom studied her with interest. ‘All right. Help me with these.’
Together they ca
rried the canvases into the kitchen. Not waiting for an invitation, Juliet began to unwrap them and laid them on the table. Each painting was a portrait of a young man, one lying in a buttercup field, the other sunbathing on an upturned boat. Both were naked. The brown paper wrapping lay half unfastened around them, and Juliet felt as if she had undressed them a little hastily and publicly, and resisted the urge to the draw the paper back across. She glanced over at Tom.
‘These are wonderful. I should probably know you, shouldn’t I. Are you terribly famous?’
Tom smiled at the barrage of her enthusiasm. ‘No. I am not famous. My stuff’s rather fallen out of vogue, I’m afraid.’
‘People can be very stupid. We’ll have to show them that they’re wrong. Do you have a dealer? Can I sell you at my gallery? Well, it’s not exactly my gallery but I do choose all the artists.’
Tom laughed. ‘Don’t hang about, do you?’
Juliet shifted from foot to foot, a little embarrassed to remember that she was still in her pyjamas, but also quite determined to have Tom’s pictures at Wednesday’s if she could. Jim and Charlie might sketch nudes and hold life classes but these portraits were no posed impressions of pink and white Marjories. There was a boldness in Tom’s paintings of the boys, and a sadness too, as though the middle-aged painter studied youth and beauty with a wistful eye – his own youth lost and the boys themselves indifferent to his interest. There was a loneliness in them that she understood.
‘I’d love to show your paintings at the gallery. Please say yes.’
Tom scratched his nose, and then grinned. ‘All right. Why not?’ he said. ‘I was only going to give these to Max and he probably wouldn’t even remember to put them up. There’s a bunch of my canvases stashed in his shed.’
Juliet smiled, delighted. ‘We should have that tea to celebrate. I think Max has some scones somewhere.’
They sat at the kitchen table eating slightly stale scones and raspberry jam with the two naked boys propped up on the counter, watching.
‘How do you know Max?’ asked Tom.
‘Charlie Fussell introduced us and now I sell his paintings.’
‘He’s never mentioned you,’ said Tom.
‘Oh.’ Juliet tried not to be hurt. ‘And what about you? How long have you known him?’
‘Years and years,’ said Tom. ‘Before the war. And during. We were both war artists. I suggested it to him. He was all set to go to prison as a conscientious objector but I knew his heart wasn’t in the thing. He just wanted to paint people not shoot them. I thought that should be encouraged.’
He paused, reaching for another scone, to which he added a wodge of butter as thick as cheese. ‘It might have been a mistake though. Perhaps the army or prison would have been better for him. It’s worse in a way, to sit and watch and have to paint it all and not be able to do anything. Inertia and watching without looking away do funny things to a man.’
‘Yes, I suppose they do,’ said Juliet slowly.
She nursed her tea as Tom ate, flicking crumbs from his lap with elegant fingers. Most of the artists she knew had paint under their nails, fingers cracked and yellow from white spirit. Not Tom. His skin was smooth and clean. He smelled of expensive aftershave.
‘I’m sure you like Max now,’ he said, ‘but you should have known him before. This version of him is like a black and white reproduction – only gives you an idea of the original.’
‘Don’t say that. It’s too sad.’ But Juliet wondered whether this was the reason she liked Max. There were still days when she felt that George had stolen the original Juliet and left behind a pallid copy.
Tom continued, half to himself. ‘Max was quite something then. We were all a little in love with him.’
Juliet flushed and studied her cup, embarrassed that Tom admitted so openly his feelings for Max and that he evidently assumed she and Max were lovers. But then she was wearing his dressing gown.
When Max arrived back at the house a little later, she felt Tom observing them like a twitcher in a hide studying a pair of chiffchaffs, glancing from one to the other trying to determine their relationship. Max showed no embarrassment, tossing down his bundle of coats and paintbox and embracing his friend. ‘Stay for supper,’ he said.
Tom smiled. ‘It’s only twelve thirty.’
‘Well then, you’ll be staying a while. I’m off to nap. Tell Juliet all my bad habits. My murky past.’
‘How do you know I haven’t already?’ asked Tom.
Max slapped Tom’s thin shoulders, threw his head back and laughed. He left them alone again in the kitchen, and Juliet felt as if the light had suddenly been turned off. Glancing over at Tom, she caught a tiny sigh and understood that he felt it too.
While Max slept, Juliet spent the rest of the afternoon accompanying Tom through the wood with his sketchpad. He reeled off the names of the trees and even the types of moss and the fat insects scuttling busily up and down the bark. ‘It was either become a naturalist or an artist. All the kids are busy with Pop Art. I’m just a simple figurative painter. I suppose that makes me obsolete.’
That evening they all shared a meal of bread and honey with a bit of duck liver and goose fat dripping. The children were thrilled with the addition to the party, especially when Tom produced a bottle of wine from his car and gave the children a half glass watered down with water from the jug. The two men became loquacious as they reminisced.
The children stayed quiet, hoping that their mother wouldn’t object to the wine or remind the men to curb their language. It was always the stories that made Juliet look down at the kitchen table and tuck her hair behind her ear that were the most interesting.
For her part, Juliet decided that in Tom’s company Max seemed more like other men, losing the stillness that sometimes unnerved her. After supper, when the children vanished to play, Tom pulled a letter out of his pocket.
‘I’ve something for you. Doubtless you’ll say no because you’re a fool, but maybe she’ll talk some sense into you.’
‘Well, let’s have it,’ said Max, not in the least offended.
‘Cunard Lines are refurbishing the Queen Mary. It’s an attempt to lure passengers away from the shiny new jets and back to the romance of the ocean liner. They want you to create new murals for the First-Class Dining-Room – something whimsical and English to tickle the American traveller’s palate. I’ve spoken to them and they’ll give you a pretty free rein and the money’s not half bad.’
He handed the envelope to Juliet who opened it, raising an eyebrow at the generous terms.
‘Oh, Max, you really should do it,’ she said.
To her dismay Bluma Zonderman had been quite correct in her predictions – everyone clamoured for pictures by Jim and Charlie (YOUNG! MODERN! HIP! SEXY!) but no one wanted Max’s bird paintings. They might be the most interesting and accomplished in the gallery, but neither critics nor buyers cared.
‘If they like the murals, they’ll commission you to design patterns for new china, curtains, motifs for carpets, menu cards, napkins – the works,’ said Tom.
Max frowned. ‘What nonsense.’
Tom turned to Juliet in exasperation. ‘I said he’s a fool. You talk to him. You know he needs the cash.’
‘It might be fun,’ said Juliet, leaning towards Max. ‘It’ll be like adorning the house, only on a grand scale.’ She could see that he remained unconvinced and tried another tack. ‘The cottage needs a new roof. You said so yourself. It leaks whenever it rains. What’s going to happen next winter? You need to look at each stencil for a cocktail menu, every sketch for a mural as a tile for the new roof.’
‘And they’ve promised you a pair of first-class return tickets to New York as well,’ added Tom. ‘You could take Juliet.’
Max laughed. ‘I’m not taking any boats, but Juliet does make a good point about the roof. I’ll think about it.’<
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Unwilling to press him further, Juliet and Tom watched as he pulled on his coat and thick woollen hat. He paused beside the door, ready to disappear for another night spent wild fowling on the marshes and heath. He turned first to Tom.
‘Are you coming?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No. Time for me to head back to town. Long drive.’
Max nodded and faced Juliet. ‘Will you come?’ he said softly, looking at her.
Juliet squirmed, not wanting to disappoint Max, not wanting to venture out. There were no curtains on the kitchen windows and outside it was pitch dark and the wind made the trees tap on the glass with thin fingers. She thought of the black wood stretching away to the bare marshes and of walking through the cold and damp and the bang of guns and of getting lost and not finding her way back to the brick cottage. She shook her head.
‘No thank you. Not tonight. Perhaps, tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow then,’ said Max, disappearing into the darkness and closing the door.
• • •
After the men had gone, Juliet, Frieda and Leonard sat beside the hearth playing snap and endless rounds of rummy, all cheating amiably. The smell of the kerosene lamps gave Juliet a headache, so they played by firelight. The wind shrieked down the chimney flue, making it seem as if the fearsome dragon carved into the mantle was roaring, his mouth full of upside-down flames. The three of them wondered separately and silently where Max was on such a night.
Leonard pictured him swinging in a hammock slung from the branches of a great oak tree, a squadron of geese pink as flamingos perching beside him as he drew their portraits one by one.
He watched his mother, wondering why she hadn’t gone too. He’d begged repeatedly. Wild fowling. It sounded even better than building sukkah dens with his grandfather, but Max had informed him that the night marshes were no place for children.
‘You’d talk too much. Frighten away the birds.’
The Gallery of Vanished Husbands: A Novel Page 16
