‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’
‘That’s it, isn’t it? You can’t bear to touch me. I repel you.’
‘Alan, stop it. You’re being childish. I can’t be bothered with this.’
‘That’s obvious. You can’t be bothered with me, you mean.’
‘Not when you’re in this mood.’
‘It’s you who is in a mood.’
‘All right, maybe I am, so leave me alone.’
‘But I want to know what’s put you in this sulk …’
‘Sulk? I’m not sulking, I didn’t say I was sulking.’
‘That’s what it looks like. You should see your face, the minute I saw you, your face, set in an absolute sulk. I thought maybe boss Conrad hadn’t taken your paintings.’
‘Boss Conrad? Whatever do you mean?’
‘Well, he is your boss, in a way.’
‘He certainly is not. I don’t work for him. I never have done, I’m not his employee.’
‘You’d like to work for him, though, wouldn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Fibber.’
‘Alan, stop it! Or else I’m going into the hut and I’ll stay there.’
She should say it now, tell him that she wasn’t just going to her studio but that she was leaving altogether. It was so tempting. Into her head flashed an image of herself packing a bag and storming out to the station with Alan weeping and shouting in the background. She stood still, relishing the vision, and then collected herself. The room was very quiet. Alan hadn’t got down from the table or put his trousers back on. How ludicrous he looked. She found herself smiling without wanting to do so, and all the old affection she had for him came rushing back. She went over to him and slapped his foot lightly. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘get down, get dressed. I’ll make some lunch.’ But he didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. She saw the tears seeping out from under his closed eyelids. She took a deep breath. ‘Alan,’ she said, ‘Alan,’ and kissed him on the cheek. There was no response. Turning away again, she went into the pantry and began heating some soup she’d made. The silence seemed appalling, she couldn’t bear it. Going back through the kitchen into the next room, she put a record on the gramophone, not caring what it was, and when the jazz notes began she felt better. The music filled the cottage and none of her movements could now be heard. She stirred the soup, cut some bread and got ready the bowls and spoons, and was busy. They would eat. This scene would end. They would carry on as normal – they always did. ‘Ready,’ she called, taking the soup through.
He still hadn’t moved, but she saw that his cheeks were dry, the tears had stopped. ‘Here,’ she said, and put his bowl down on the table. ‘It’s going to be very difficult to eat lying down and with your eyes shut, but it’s up to you.’ She took her own soup and walked through the cottage and out of the door and perched on the garden wall. It wasn’t warm enough to sit there, and she had taken her coat off, but she was not going to stay in the same room as Alan while he lay there. It felt freer outside, she was glad to be in the open air and ate with enjoyment. The strains of jazz floated outside and she found herself humming. She would have liked to dance. Another picture came into her head, of Alan coming to join her and making her dance with him, his leg improbably better. But she had never danced with him or ever seen him dance, and this image faded quickly. With enormous reluctance she went to take her empty bowl into the kitchen, dreading the sight of Alan still lying prone, the soup uneaten at his side. But he had gone. So had the soup. Relieved, she went to do the washing-up. He must be in the little living room, sitting beside the gramophone, the music soothing him. She would make him some tea and take it to him, and then she would go and lie down, exhausted.
*
Alan, opening the door, had no idea who the man standing there could be, though afterwards he realised he should have identified him instantly. Tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, Conrad was the sort of man Alan hated and envied, and he was barely polite. ‘Yes?’ he said, expecting to be asked where the road to St Austell lay, so when Conrad said good afternoon and might he speak to Stella, Alan was thrown. They knew nobody. Neither he nor Stella had made any friends. They kept themselves to themselves, spoke only to the postman and the shopkeepers. ‘Stella?’ he queried. ‘Stella,’ Conrad repeated, and then, ‘I sell her paintings.’
‘Oh,’ said Alan, furious to have been so slow and stupid, ‘do you indeed?’
‘I’m Conrad, Conrad Jenkinson, from the pottery.’
‘I see. Well, I’m afraid Stella is asleep.’ It was three in the afternoon. ‘She was tired.’ They were still standing at the door, with Alan trying to close it as much as possible behind him, so that his voice would not carry to Stella upstairs. ‘Can I help?’
‘You are?’
Alan frowned. ‘Her husband,’ he said, the lie coming easily because the pretence had gone on so long.
‘Ah,’ Conrad said, ‘I didn’t know she was married, sorry.’
‘She doesn’t wear a ring.’
‘Doesn’t she? I never noticed.’
‘Rings irritate her skin,’ Alan improvised, ‘give her eczema.’
‘Right. Well, if you could tell her I called, and if she’d like to drop in some time I might have some news for her.’
‘What news?’
‘I think I’d like to tell her, if you don’t mind.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Well, just that … well, I’d just like to tell her.’
‘Is it personal?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Well then, give me the message. I’ll tell her. She’ll want to know why you came.’
He was making the man dislike him, Alan could see that, any fool could. He was being hostile and unfriendly and rude, but he couldn’t help it. It was how he felt, confronted with someone in such glowing health, face unmarked, legs strong, a fine specimen of manhood. Conrad Jenkinson was just as he’d feared. Thank God, Stella hadn’t answered the door. She would have invited him in, made him tea, and it would have been unbearable watching them together. But now the visitor was turning away, an odd superior smile on his face.
‘What’s the message?’ Alan said. ‘What shall I tell her?’
There was no reply. Conrad Jenkinson was at the gate, bending to open it, carefully shutting it. His motor-bike was parked on the grass verge. He got it started, with a struggle, and slowly rode down the track.
Angry, Alan went back inside just as Stella came down the stairs, yawning, her hair dishevelled and her cheeks rosy with sleep. ‘Was that someone at the door?’
‘No.’
‘But I heard you talking.’
‘Oh, that, yes, someone was lost, man on a motor-bike, asked the way. You know they haven’t put the signposts back yet.’
‘The way to where?’
‘St Austell, of course.’
More yawns, some stretching. ‘I’m going for a walk, wake myself up.’
‘I’ll come.’
‘But your leg, you said …’
‘I know what I said. I’ll come, unless you’d rather I didn’t.’ He saw her hesitate.
‘You’ll make the pain worse.’
‘I can stand the pain.’
‘No point, though, making it worse.’
‘I want to walk with you. That’s the point. Unless you don’t want me, which wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Don’t start again, Alan.’
‘Start what?’
She turned round from looking out of the window so abruptly that he almost jumped. Her eyes met his and he saw how furious she suddenly was. ‘No,’ she said, ‘since you’ve asked, I do not want company on my walk, thank you. I’d prefer to walk on my own.’
‘I don’t blame you. No fun walking with a cripple. Cripples are a drag, can’t swing along, can’t …’
‘I’m not listening.’
‘Of course you aren’t, you never do.’
‘What? How dare you! I’ve listened to you ever since
I met you. Listened and listened, and now I don’t like what I’m hearing, I’m tired of it, I want to go for a walk alone.’ She was rushing about, getting her coat, hurling it on, hunting for her scarf, pulling on boots. Any minute she would be gone.
‘Your Conrad man came,’ he said. She stopped, one boot on, one lying on the floor. She was waiting. ‘Don’t know what he wanted …’ he said, and before she could ask, ‘… just you. He wanted you. Don’t we all.’
‘You lied.’
‘Yes, I lied. And I said I was your husband, another lie.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘I didn’t want him to think you were a kept woman.’
‘Don’t be so stupid.’
‘I’m afraid I was. Stupid, that’s me.’
Would she still go for a walk? He watched her. She resumed getting ready, but he could see how disturbed she was, more by his lies, he thought, than by the news that Conrad Jenkinson had been. The anger had gone out of her and she looked worn and sad. ‘Stella …’ he began, but she shook her head, and, opening the door, stepped out. Anxiously, he stood in the doorway, to see which way she was going to turn. She turned right, towards the cliff path, and not left, towards the pottery beyond the town. Relieved, he put his own coat on and collected his stick. His leg was much too painful to follow her but he couldn’t bear to be inside, waiting. He would limp to the end of the track and sit on the tree stump there, and when she reached the highest point on the path he would briefly be able to see her in the far distance. When she returned, he would be properly contrite. She would see his shame, and understand.
III
CONRAD WISHED HE had not gone to call on Stella. She hadn’t been difficult to find, or at least her cottage hadn’t – everyone seemed to know where the lovely redhead lived. He’d asked about her in the post office and immediately two other people in the queue there, as well as the postmaster, had piped up with her address. Odd, though, that gossip hadn’t extended to telling him about her husband, but perhaps he hadn’t given his informants a chance. He hadn’t wanted to reveal why he wanted to find her. They would all think he was ‘after’ her, had designs on Stella. It would fit with what they knew of him, and there was nothing he could do about that. A reputation here was a reputation. Once gained, never shed.
But he had no designs on Stella. Thin, neurotic women did not tempt him. Thin she most certainly was, much too thin, and neurotic he’d judged her from the moment she turned up with her pathetic daubs, almost trembling with anxiety. He was not running an art gallery, fortunately, or he couldn’t have afforded to display them – they would have damaged any reputation he hoped to have – but as it was there was no harm in tucking them away in the shop together with the cards Ginny stocked, and his reject pots. Someone with no artistic sensibility would buy them one day, he thought, and someone duly did. He’d been glad to see them go and had hoped there would be no more. She’d come by his place every now and again, flitting in and out nervously, and he’d smiled and nodded but left any talking to her. Ginny chatted to her occasionally but didn’t find out much about her except that she’d been a nurse, a surprising piece of information – she didn’t look like their idea of a nurse, neither calm nor capable-looking, and she wouldn’t have inspired confidence.
There were plenty of people in Cornwall these days who were like Stella, people escaping London, wanting to put the war behind them and change their lives for the better. The war had made them think both that they ought to do it and that they had the courage and nerve. A big rethinking had gone on and as a result would-be artists and writers were everywhere, most of them heading for disillusionment. Conrad didn’t resent their presence. Why should he? He wasn’t one of them. He had been to art college and, since giving up painting, had long been established in his own pottery. He didn’t fear newcomers and he didn’t despise them either. Let them spread their wings, let them try to fly.
Stella would never fly. She was doomed to be for ever grounded, a poor little sparrow with clipped wings, hopping feverishly about looking for crumbs. How long would it take for her to realise she was no good? Not much longer, surely. She’d switched to still lifes from landscape and, though she had some feeling for composition and colour, her technique was hopeless. He hadn’t felt he needed to tell her this. She hadn’t asked his opinion, only if he would try to sell them. And then she’d produced that other painting. One look was enough. Never in a million years could she have painted it, so it was just as well she hadn’t actually claimed to have done so. She’d pretended, though. She would have liked him to assume it was hers: the intention to deceive had been there. Where on earth had she got it from? After she’d taken it away, he hadn’t been able to recall what she’d said, or indeed whether she’d told him anything at all about who had painted the picture. Ginny needed to see it. ‘Buy it from her, if you liked it so much,’ Ginny had said. ‘Offer her a fiver, she’ll be thrilled.’
So he’d gone to offer her a fiver. He had been going to say it was to be a birthday present for his wife, for Ginny, forty next week. He’d been going to say Ginny was an artist herself, she’d had her work exhibited at the NEAC in London, and he was sure she would love the little painting, it was her sort of thing. But then that strange man had come to the door, looking so ill and acting in such a hostile way, and he hadn’t wanted to tell him why he had come to find Stella. There wouldn’t have been any harm in it, but for some reason he had felt immediately secretive. He hadn’t trusted Stella’s husband: he’d been sure that if he had said he’d come to buy a painting from her, then her husband would have told him it was not for sale.
But this left the problem of how to get hold of Stella and deal only with her over the painting. Did her husband work? Could he demean himself further and return to the post office and enquire? The man had looked too ill to work. He must have been wounded. Probably a hero. Conrad was not a hero. He had not even served in the war. Tall and strong though he looked, he had failed his medical spectacularly. No one ever gave him a white feather in Cornwall but he’d awarded himself one many times though he had shown no cowardice and could not help his TB. Six months in a sanatorium turned out to be infinitely preferable to the same time in the trenches and, finally, TB cured (or so it was hoped, if not guaranteed) he was grateful. When the surviving soldiers returned to civilian life he’d felt awkward and worried about how he would be regarded but, beyond being called a lucky blighter, he had never been asked to account for how he’d spent the war years.
Clearly, Stella’s husband – who had not, it occurred to Conrad, had the courtesy to give his name – had not been lucky. The burn on his face told one story, his frail appearance another. The man had every right to be bitter. He might be suspicious – Stella was lovely, even if thin and nervous. He would want to keep her to himself. Conrad wondered what Stella’s husband knew about him. He must know about the pottery and Stella bringing her paintings. She must have told him about Ginny and the children and the whole set-up, but of course if he was a jealous man that would not necessarily allay his fears. It had been a mistake after all not to be straightforward with him.
There was nothing he could do now except wait for her to come round to the pottery again. Since he now had three of her still lifes on show she would come eventually to see if he had sold them. Maybe in a month, maybe six weeks, she’d appear, shy and diffident but wanting to know if he had had any success.
All this went through Conrad’s head on his way back to the pottery. What he didn’t expect to find when he got there later was Stella herself.
*
She had to go somewhere. Wandering along the cliff path would not do for long, though at first it helped to calm her. She would have to leave Alan, there was no other solution. If she didn’t, scenes such as the one which had just driven her out of the cottage would be repeated and their misery would deepen. He wanted her to be someone she was not, a person happy to subjugate herself to his greater need. And it was entirely her own fault. She
had led him to believe that she would be happy to care for him, to help him recover, content to while away the days, the weeks, the months, the years, amusing herself with her attempts to paint. When Emlyn was killed, there had been such a quietening, then, of all her senses. She had only wanted to be still, to drift, not to feel. She had thought painting would help.
There was another faint path that led away from the cliff path at its highest point. It was barely visible, but she had taken it a couple of times, without Alan, and it had led to a broad track that in turn wound its way past a rubbish tip to the road. She took this path now, slipping a bit on the stones, her dress catching on the bushes, but soon she was on the track and walking rapidly to the road. She had no idea where she was going except that she wanted to be as far from Alan as possible and away from the cottage as long as she could. There were places in St Austell she could go, but she found herself avoiding the town, and going up the hill. The pottery came into view before she had thought about it, and then it seemed so natural, to call in on Conrad. Even if he was not there, someone would be, some other human being to whom she could talk, though she couldn’t imagine what kind of conversation might result from her confusion.
Ginny, Conrad’s wife, was in the shop at the entrance to the pottery, doing something at the till. She looked up as Stella came in and said good afternoon, and Stella responded. Then she didn’t know what to say or do. Ginny intimidated her. She was a large woman, as tall and strong-looking as her husband, with something of the Gypsy about her – the black, long hair, the tanned skin, the dark eyes. She wore flamboyant clothes, brightly coloured skirts down to the ground, and had bangles on both wrists and long earrings dangling from her ears. She was quite unlike any woman Stella had ever seen – voluptuous, dramatic, sure of herself. Helplessly, Stella turned away from the sight of her own pathetic paintings and examined some cups and saucers arranged in a row on a shelf. She might buy some – they were pretty, pale green, not too big – but then realised she had no money with her. Ginny, she knew, was watching her closely. Her hands shook as she lifted one of the cups and it clattered slightly when she replaced it on its saucer.
Keeping the World Away Page 21
