But he had not said no.
II
THE NOISE, THE dirt, the grey gaunt buildings, the filthy front door, the knocker all greasy, the smell in the dark hallway (of cabbage cooking), the broken light, the worn-into-shreds stair-carpet, the missing banisters – and then her room. At the back, overlooking the dustbins. The net curtain a grimy veil which she tore away at once and bundled into a corner, not caring what the landlord would say. A little more light came in, but not much. The dirt on the window panes was both inside and out. Gwen rubbed at it. Interesting. The smears were yellow, like a darkened egg-yolk. Smoke, someone had smoked heavily in this dungeon.
She smiled. Everything looked dingy and dreary, but, for the time being, it was hers. She had come to this room a stranger (only seventeen and away from home for the first time), but she would make it familiar and not be afraid of it. The noise of the trains shunting in and out of Euston was loud, but only the piercing whistles of the guards alarmed her. The noise of the trains themselves, of the wheels on the rails, was a rhythm she could get used to. She would have to. There was no money for a better place and she did not want to go out to St Albans, as Gus at first had done, to stay with their aunt. She wanted to be close to the Slade, able to get there and back with ease every day. Gower Street, she had already established, was a mere ten minutes’ walk away.
A dull walk. No greenery, only pavements and tall houses cutting out the light except on the brightest days. And so many people, hurrying along from Euston Road all the way down to Bloomsbury. She had not expected beauty here, she had known there would be no exhilarating sights to match those of the sea at home, but the grimness of her surroundings was a shock. She had had to hold herself together very firmly, tell herself to wait. What she had come to this part of London for would soon be made known to her and nothing else would matter.
She surveyed her room, hands on hips, and decided to change nothing. The bed would be better turned the other way, but she would leave it. Sitting on its edge, she felt the mattress sag. She must find a board and slip it between the springs and the old mattress. But the linen was clean: it gave off a fresh smell when she sniffed it. There was no mirror in the room, either on the wardrobe door or over the mantel. No wonder – this room did not want to reflect itself in any particular. There were no ornaments either, which was a relief. The surfaces of the chest of drawers and dressing table were bare, not even a cloth to cover the scratched tops. Too much furniture, though, in too small a space. She had to edge sideways to get from the bed to the door. Where was she to wash? There was a washstand with a jug and basin upon it but no water in the jug. Would someone bring it each day, or would she have to fetch it herself?
She unpacked quickly. The narrow wardrobe seemed to receive her clothes reluctantly. There was no rail inside it, only a row of hooks. She had brought four dresses only, and two skirts, and six blouses that she would wear to the Slade. Two pairs of boots, one pair of galoshes. Her stockings and underclothes went into the drawers of the chest, leaving plenty of room. Her nightdress and robe she spread out on the bed. They looked vaguely indecent sprawled there, the white cotton startling against the brown counterpane, too pure for its old face. The problem was her drawing equipment. There was nowhere to put her sketchbooks and charcoals, her rubbers and brushes. Gus had told her not to bring anything but she had disobeyed him. She put them in the long bottom drawer of the chest, and her valise under the bed.
It was late. She had not eaten since she left the Bayswater establishment, Miss Philpot’s, where she had previously stayed, but hunger did not plague her. She was too excited, by the thought of the morning and making her way to the Slade, and beginning, at last. Getting undressed and into bed, after the adventure of finding the water closet down the passage, she lay with her arms behind her head and stared at the wallpaper. Maroon and brown with an inexplicable green that appeared every foot or so. What was the green? She concentrated. The pattern made no sense. She had left the curtains open and the lamps outside, shining in the street above, gave only a murky glow. The green, she decided, was meant to represent stems of flowers, but flowers of a sort she had never seen. It was enough to give anyone nightmares, but she slept well.
*
Oh, the size of it! Gwen had never been in such a large room, the ceiling so high that the space seemed to diminish her. Not an empty room – in fact it was crowded with busts and statues and easels – but there was a feeling of emptiness that thrilled her. The air was cold, the light harsh. She stood, solemn and hesitant, in the doorway, unsure where she should go. A girl, with long wavy hair, worn loose, turned from her easel and saw her. She stood up and came towards Gwen, smiling, welcoming, her arms outstretched in an extravagant intention of a greeting to follow. Gwen quickly held out a hand to forestall an embrace. The girl laughed, took her hand. She said she was Edna Waugh and that Gwen should come and sit by her. Gus had told her of his sister’s arrival and they were all eager to meet her. Gwen sat, as directed. She had no desire to talk. She was impatient to start, and picked up her charcoal at once. There seemed to be no teacher to tell her what she should do, so she did as Edna was doing and drew what was in front of her. Everyone began in the Antiques room, men and women. She had her box of charcoals with her, and her sheets of papier Ingres, and a chunk of bread, as instructed. She set herself to toil over the casts of Greek, Roman and Renaissance heads, and waited to be corrected.
Correction did not come that day. Henry Tonks, the teacher, duly arrived but he was much engaged with others in the vast room and beyond a polite greeting to his new student said nothing, though he stood and watched her for a moment. This did not make her as nervous as she had anticipated. She knew, from Gus, who had been through this a year ago, what Tonks expected: his students’ taste must be formed by studying sculpture before they proceeded to Life drawing. Simply to be sitting in this room drawing all day was a privilege, and one she did not need to be told to value, so there were no complaints from her about what others, sighing over the repetitive drawing, considered tedious. Five o’clock came too early for her, and she was last to leave, a sheaf of drawings in her folder but none of them, in her own estimation, good enough. Tomorrow she would try harder, and the day after that harder still, and she would not be deflected from her purpose.
There were those who wished to deflect her, though. Sirens everywhere, singing of the pleasures of gathering in cafés and going to boxes at the theatre and meeting in each other’s homes. Temptations all around, to which Gus was always ready to succumb. She was not sure that she could resist entirely, or that she should.
*
‘Come home with me,’ Ida said, ‘it isn’t far.’ They crossed Tottenham Court Road, Ida talking all the while and Gwen with head bent, not looking at her new friend but listening intently, and carried on along Goodge Street – she was noting the names, memorising them – and so into Wigmore Street, where Ida lived. The house was intimidatingly tall. It spoke of grandeur and wealth to Gwen but, once through the front door, that impression disappeared. The hall was cluttered with what seemed to be bales of material, and large sealed cardboard boxes. But Ida was leading the way up the stairs, rushing up them, beckoning Gwen to follow, and laughingly repeating, ‘Not far now, not far now.’ On the fourth floor, she flung open a door and said, ‘Here we are, now sit, do, catch your breath.’ Gwen had no need to, she was not out of breath, but she sat on the nearest chair to the door, an odd, straight-backed chair painted gold.
She caught the room’s life instantly. Crowded, friendly, dimly lit, full of colour and texture, messy, somewhat shabby, worn and faded fabrics everywhere. Ida brought tea, and behind her came a fat, soft-looking woman moving slowly, like a ball rolling across the floor. ‘My mother,’ Ida said, and, to her mother, ‘Gus’s sister.’ Gwen thought she saw Mrs Nettleship’s eyes harden. ‘His sister,’ Mrs Nettleship said. ‘I see.’ It was not an approving comment. Bells rang somewhere in the house, and Mrs Nettleship sighed and said she must go, she
was needed. As she left the room, a girl came running in. ‘Ethel,’ Ida said, ‘this is Gwen, Gus’s sister.’ Ethel smiled and was friendly, offering to bring more tea, but Gwen felt vaguely insulted. She did not want to go through her new life as Gus’s sister. She was herself, people must see that.
Leaving the Nettleship household an hour later, she felt relieved, and then immediately guilty. The Nettleship girls were charming and had exerted themselves to make her feel wanted and at home. But that was where the problem lay. No. 58 Wigmore Street was a home. It breathed ‘home’, though in fact, as she had already learned, it was three-quarters a place of work, with Mrs Nettleship running a dressmaking business on two floors and Mr Nettleship painting on another. But there was a closeness and comfort that had been entirely lacking in Tenby. Walking back to Euston Square, Gwen wondered if her disturbed feelings while she was with the Nettleships were to do with envy. Did she want what Ida had?
*
‘Let us have lunch,’ Edna said. She had found Gwen wandering down a corridor in the Slade, seeming lost. Gwen did not want lunch, she never ate lunch, she had no money for lunch, but she went with the irresistible Edna, pausing only to put on her hat. ‘Your hat!’ Edna said. Was she laughing? ‘Oh yes,’ Edna said, ‘wear your pretty hat and I will wear mine, though I was not thinking of a lunch where hats are needed. We will look very smart, very proper, nobody at Bella’s will recognise me.’ There was a joke somewhere, Gwen knew. Bella’s was a café in Charlotte Street, a tiny place squashed between two other grander restaurants. There were four small circular tables and round each table four stools upon which the clientele could perch (uncomfortably). Gwen saw that the two young men already seated in the café could not take their eyes off Edna. She was not surprised. Edna was lovely, she radiated brightness, as though sparks were coming off her hair and clothes. But she was not flirtatious or frivolous. Gwen wanted to tell these ogling men that Edna was a serious student of art and that they must not mistake her prettiness for a coquette’s. She knew no one would doubt her own seriousness. Everything about her spoke of it – her dark, restrained clothing, her solemn expression, her aloof, detached demeanour. But there again they would be wrong. Her mind raced with millions of violent and spectacular thoughts and ideas, and in the centre of herself she stored a passion which might terrify people if they suspected it. It lay coiled inside, powerful, making the occasional twist and thrust through her veins to remind her that it was there, waiting, but still dormant. Edna bought her coffee, and a boiled egg, and toast, and invited her to come home with her, to St Albans, at the weekend.
*
It was Grilda who asked her, which was strange because she had been thinking of asking Grilda, and not Ida or Edna. Grilda, whose real name was Maude, seemed the most like her. She flitted in and out of rooms, never quite settled, and this had made Gwen notice her. She drew well. Gwen had watched her in the Antiques room and had seen how careful she was, how she took pains to understand the anatomy of a head or body. Now that at last they had progressed to the Life room Grilda showed the same scrupulous attention to detail.
They had not exactly become intimate friends, but that was another mark in Grilda’s favour. She moved among the young women students easily, included in their gatherings, but she was not close to any particular girl, she did not pair off with any of them. Gwen had hardly spoken to her. They sat next to each other in the Life class and it was not till almost five o’clock in the afternoon, and time to pack up, that Grilda asked her, in an offhand way, making nothing of her request, whether she would serve as a model for her. Gwen nodded, giving the suggestion no thought. She wanted someone to model for her, too, but had delayed asking anyone because she did not think she could draw them in her room and she had no other place to take them. Grilda, she heard, had two rooms, which were spacious and attractive. Gwen had already thought of offering herself as a model, hoping that the modelling could take place at Grilda’s and the arrangement would become mutual.
But Grilda asked first. That evening, Gwen went home with her, neither of them speaking. Grilda was tall, with long arms and legs, and a chest Gwen assumed flat until she saw her naked and realised that Grilda hid her breasts. There was no embarrassment on either side. As soon as they were in her rooms and the curtains had been drawn, and the fire lit, Grilda sat down with her sketchbook on her knee and said, ‘There, I think, to the right of the fire, near the lamp.’ Gwen undressed rapidly, draping her clothes neatly over the back of a chair. She had not been told how to pose so she sat as the model they had been drawing that day had sat, knees together, hands resting on them, head slightly raised. The room was not yet warm and her nipples were erect. Grilda drew in silence, studying her more than sketching. There was a jug of lilies on the round table near which Grilda sat, waxy white flowers with orange stamens. Their scent filled the room and made Gwen feel slightly nauseous.
‘Thank you,’ Grilda said, closing her sketchbook. Gwen did not ask to see her drawings. She hesitated, wanting Grilda to offer to pose for her. It was her room, it might seem impertinent to ask. ‘This light is bad,’ Grilda said, ‘we should wait until the summer.’ And then, at last, ‘Are you rushing? Do you want to draw me?’ She took Gwen’s place, throwing her clothes on the floor, but her pose was different. She perched on the very edge of the chair, arms behind her back, legs stretched out. Gwen did not like this pose but there was an impatience about Grilda which made her reluctant to say anything. She drew badly, unable to capture the quality of Grilda’s awkwardness. Her body split into two distinct halves, the torso rounded and in proportion, the limbs almost jagged and too long, too heavy. She didn’t look at Grilda’s face at all, leaving it blank.
The evening was not a success.
*
She allowed herself to be taken, just sometimes, to one of the Tottenham Court Road cafés. Ida pleaded with her to come, at the end of the day, and it was hard to resist Ida. But when she went, the first time, Ida had company with her. ‘This is Ursula,’ she said, ‘back from Paris, fancy!’ Ursula was elegant and rather beautiful, and Gwen was drawn to her at once, knowing that this was the girl Gus had been infatuated with in his first year. Ursula did not mention Gus. She talked of Paris and Gwen listened carefully. Did Ursula have money, to have been able to afford this visit, she wondered. Ursula was quiet beside the animated, talkative Ida, but Gwen read into her reserve a sensitivity which she felt might match her own. She needed a friend and it could not be Ida, or not in the way she wanted, much though she liked her. Ursula, she thought, might be the one. She would see.
*
She wrote to Winifred often, but could not seem to catch in words what she could catch in drawings and in the end, as writing became ever more stilted and laborious, she resorted to sending sketches upon the back of which she scribbled other information. She drew her fellow student Ambrose McEvoy with his flat, straight black hair, his monocle, his immaculate clothes, and on the back of her drawing she wrote that his voice was strange, it had a cracked sound, and that she was learning a great deal from him about building up colour in painting and how to emphasise light and dark. This did not tell the whole story, of course, but she lacked the language to do that. A tiny trickle of feeling had been cautiously running through her from that deep hidden well she knew was there, but she was afraid of its turning into a torrent, and of being engulfed by it before she was ready. So she dammed it up and set her face against it. There was so much to learn and nothing must get in the way. She knew she was born to love, but not when or whom. There was safety in numbers and she kept to them for the most part. She did not care for groups, but within a group, she felt secure.
*
Winifred was coming. Their father had agreed that she might come to London and study music. She was to live with Gwen and Gus and another friend, Grace, in Fitzroy Street. It had been kept from their father that the house, No. 21, had once been a brothel, and that the woman who owned it was an extraordinary character of whom he would not have a
pproved. Gwen had not yet met Mrs Everett, but she had seen her, dressed in her widow’s weeds and men’s boots, and carrying a large bag in which were rumoured to repose a Bible, a dagger, a saucepan and a loaf of bread. One of the students at the Slade, William Orpen, who lived in the basement of her house, had been to a session of what she called her ‘Sunday School’, where religious songs were sung and there was much clapping and swaying in time. William found it hilarious, and so did Gus when he was taken along, but Gwen shuddered. She knew her father would be furious.
She did not know how it would be, the four of them living together, but the financial and other advantages were too obvious to overlook. The lack of space and light at Euston Square meant she could not work there – and she had always known that in her second year she must move. For a while, she shared with Gus when he moved to Montague Place, but this was not a success. They needed someone between them who could keep them apart but also connect them. Winifred was that person, their own sister, intimately acquainted with both of them but like neither of them. She would provide the balance and, being joined by Grace, the burden would not become too great.
She arrived in January, on a bitterly cold day. It had snowed the night before and the blackened buildings of Fitzroy Street had been prettified. Gwen had bought flowers to welcome her, at great expense, six Christmas roses which she stuck in a green glass carafe and put on the washstand in Winifred’s room. They’d given Winifred the room overlooking the street, the best room, though this was not as generous as it seemed since she and Gus both preferred the back rooms where the light was stronger and from the north. Grace was to have the smaller front room, connected by a door to Winifred’s. The rooms gave the impression of being larger than they were (but also, it was true, colder). Mrs Everett did not care what was done to them and so Gwen and Gus had rearranged things considerably and thrown lengths of old velvet, purchased cheaply in a street market, over any especially hideous item. Winifred and Grace were charmed.
Keeping the World Away Page 4
