Everybody's Somebody

by Beryl Kingston

  He was so close to losing his temper, he had to get out of her way. ‘I’m off up the pub,’ he said, refastening his boot laces.

  ‘What about your supper?’

  ‘Sod supper,’ he said. And left her.

  If he’s goin’ on like that, Rosie thought, I shall certainly go, an’ he needn’t think he’s going to stop me. And when she’d fed Gracie her groats and taken her to bed, she sat down at the table and wrote to tell Mr de Silva she would be happy to model for him on his four commissioned portraits and was looking forward to starting work.

  He arrived on Monday morning almost immediately after Kitty and Jim had gone to work, with a baby’s shawl over his arm ‘to wrap round her legs for the journey’ and his eyes snapping with excitement.

  ‘We’ve got a pram for her,’ he said as he put the car into gear, ‘and I’ve hired an excellent nursemaid. Her name’s Joan and she’s very willing. I think you’ll like her. And we’ve found some bricks and a teddy bear for Baby to play with. And some spring dresses for you to wear. Everything’s ready. I’ll show you the telephone first and then we can get down to work.’

  It was standing on the hall table, looking very odd, black as jet and shaped like a frozen daffodil.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Allow me to introduce you to the wonder of the age. You pick up this receiver — so — and a voice answers you from several miles away and asks you to whom you wish to be connected. And then you wait for a second or two and the person you want is on the other end of the line and you can speak to them. What do you think of that?’

  She said it was amazing, which it was, but wondered how long it would take her to learn how to use it. It couldn’t really be as easy as that, could it?

  He was blazing with energy. ‘Come on!’ he said, and led her upstairs to the studio, where he introduced her to the girl called Joan, who couldn’t have been more than fourteen but was obviously eager to do the right thing.

  ‘You can look after Baby while she plays, can’t you,’ Gerry said to her. ‘Good. Good. Just ask if there’s anything you want to know. Rosie and I have work to do. Sketches for Spring today Rosie.’ He waved a hand at the chaise longue which was heaped with old-fashioned dresses. ‘I want to see what you look like in a few of these. It doesn’t matter which you start with.’

  They were very old-fashioned but very pretty, and all in the most delicate fabrics, which Rosie had seen and lusted over in the stores, but never imagined she would ever wear herself. She decided on a pink muslin with a row of pearl buttons down the bodice because it would be handy if Gracie needed to be fed. There was no sign of the screen but, as there was very little false modesty left in her after giving birth, she simply took off her skirt and blouse and dressed in front of the fire, as Gracie banged the bricks together and Joan sat on her heels on the hearthrug and watched her.

  ‘Hold that shawl in your hand,’ Gerry said when she was dressed. ‘Bunch it up and pretend it’s a bunch of flowers.’

  She did as she was told, imagining the flowers hanging, heads down, against her elegant skirt. Then, as he hadn’t told her where or how she should look, she watched Gracie banging the bricks. Her expression was so tender it was the first thing Gerry tried to catch. He’d almost managed it when the baby began to cry. Joan was instantly agitated, and he was surprised.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, emerging from behind the easel. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Rosie was touched by his anxious expression. ‘Nothing terrible,’ she reassured him, smiling at Joan. ‘She wants feeding, that’s all. I shall have to stop posing for a few minutes and see to it. Is that all right?’

  He said of course and then watched, intrigued, as she took the baby on her lap, undid the buttons on her bodice and let the little thing suck. He’d seen lots of paintings of the Madonna and Child during his training, but he’d never seen a nursing mother in the life and the sight was so unexpectedly moving that he went back to his easel at once, put the sketch for the commissioned painting to one side and began a completely new sketch while the emotion of what he was seeing was strong in him. It was a disappointment when the feed was over and the bodice re-buttoned and the baby handed back to her nurse. Luckily, he was rescued into the rhythm of his domestic life by the arrival of Mrs Fenchurch with the announcement that lunch was ready to serve. So while he cleaned his brushes, Rosie gave her new nursemaid the shopping bag in which she’d packed a pile of clean nappies and her pot of baby cream, and told her to change Gracie’s nappy, and wrap the dirty one up in newspaper, and then put her in the pram and take her out for her afternoon nap. And she and Gerry went down to lunch.

  It was a cheerful meal because they were both so happy to be working together again.

  ‘How often do you feed your Gracie?’ he asked, when Mrs Fenchurch had served their apple pie.

  She was a bit puzzled by his interest, but she was getting used to his eccentric ways by then, so she told him. ‘Three times during the day, usually, sometimes more, and once at night to settle her. She has groats in the morning and for her supper but apart from that…’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then in that case I shall paint you in action. You’ll be my Madonna and Child. Think of it Rosie. I shall out-Renoir Renoir.’

  ‘What about the Spring picture?’ she asked. ‘That’s a commission ent it? Don’t you have to paint that first?’

  ‘Oh that can wait,’ he said airily. ‘The sponsor won’t mind. He’s a good chap. I’ve got a year for all that. We can leave those dresses for another time too. I didn’t think much of that pink one, by the way. It’s the wrong colour.’ His eyes were shining with a quite wicked delight. ‘Eat your pie. We’ve got work to do.’

  It didn’t seem like work to Rosie at all, sitting by the fire either languorously suckling her infant or reading David Copperfield while Joan took her out for a walk in her pram, but Gerry was painting like a man possessed, singing in his tuneless way and grunting and muttering things to himself. ‘No, not quite, not quite,’ and once, very triumphantly, ‘Yes!’

  It took him two weeks to get his Madonna down on canvas. He wasn’t satisfied with it. Naturally. He was very rarely satisfied with his work. There was always more to do. But he was happy enough with this one to let his model look at it and delighted to see how much it pleased her.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, unnecessarily. ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she told him. ‘What a dear little thing my Gracie is. You’ve got her exactly.’

  ‘I shall need to work on it for a few more days,’ he said. ‘But on Monday I’m going to change that portrait of you in the red dress. I think it would fill the bill for Autumn, with a little alteration. I’ll have to look sharp because my patron’s coming to see me on Thursday week, and I want to have something to show him. They’re going to install your telephone on Monday, incidentally, so you’ll have to stay in for that but give me a call when it’s done, and I’ll have everything ready for you here and we can get on.’

  They got on until late afternoon the following Wednesday and by that time Rosie was tired and the picture was completely changed. Where it had been rather austere with a white sky behind the window and very little colour other than that red dress, it was now a blaze of red and gold and bronze. Autumn leaves swirled beyond the window and a fire leapt in the grate and he’d painted the echoes of firelight in everything in the room, fire irons, lustres, a bowl of chrysanthemums, the scarlet dress, her hair, even her skin. She still thought she looked too fierce, but it was a wonderful painting.

  ‘I shan’t need you for a week or two now,’ he said, as he drove her home. ‘If Autumn suits the patron, and I’m pretty sure it will, he’ll want me to paint his portrait next. He’s just down from Oxford, you see, and standing for Parliament at the next election. He means to be ready for it.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I shall miss…’ She was going to say ‘you’ but thought better of it. ‘…being driven about. I lik
e cars.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  ‘First one I saw, I was twelve years old,’ she told him, ‘an’ on my way to Arundel to start work. I thought it was the most wonderful thing I’d ever seen but Pa said I’d never get to ride in one because it wasn’t for the likes of us.’

  He grinned at that. ‘Well you’ve proved him wrong,’ he said, turning into Newcomen Street, ‘and good for you. Here we are. You’re home. I’ll give you a call when we can get back to Spring.’

  But spring was long over and so was summer and autumn was half gone, and Gracie was a sturdy seventeen months, babbling into speech and toddling about, before the call came. It had been a very long time and often difficult for her and Jim, because without her wage and with her savings long gone, they were hard put to it to pay the rent. In fact she was beginning to think she’d have to find an evening job in one of the local pubs to eke out, when the silent telephone finally rang.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Gerry’s voice said, cheerfully. ‘Nine o’clock? Joan’s ready and waiting.’

  To be invited so peremptorily after all that time took her breath away but she answered sensibly. ‘All right.’

  ‘Bring your shopping basket. I’ve got a commission for six townscapes. Could take us some time. Certainly months. Might even run to a year.’

  ‘All right,’ she said again. Then there was a pause because, not being able to see his face, she wasn’t sure what to say next. She didn’t like to ask about Spring in case he’d decided not to do it. ‘Have you finished painting your patron then?’ she tried.

  ‘At last,’ he said with obvious relief. ‘He was rather pernickety. It’s not framed yet so you can see it tomorrow.’

  It was the first thing Rosie saw when she walked into the studio with her shopping basket over her arm and Gracie astride her hip. She recognised the sitter at once. ‘Heavens,’ she said, handing Gracie over to Joan. ‘It’s Anthony Eden.’

  He was surprised and impressed. ‘You know him?’

  ‘I worked for him when I was eighteen,’ she explained and told him the tale. ‘He hasn’t changed much,’ she said, gazing at the picture. ‘You’ve made him look very learned sitting in front of all those books.’

  ‘He thought it gave him the necessary gravitas,’ he said and grinned. ‘I aim to please.’

  ‘You didn’t aim to please me,’ she said rather tartly. ‘I didn’t like my fierce face and you never changed that. You said it was the best thing about me.’

  ‘Ah,’ he teased, ‘but you’re not the eldest son of a baronet.’

  She gave a wry grin. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m the eldest daughter of a dairyman. What do you want me to wear?’

  ‘What you’ve got on will be perfect,’ he said. ‘I’m going to paint a picture of a market and you will be one of the shoppers.’

  That made her laugh. ‘I shop in the Borough Market nearly every day,’ she said. ‘My Jim works there.’

  ‘Even better,’ he said. ‘In that case I will paint you both in situ.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘In the market instead of the studio,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Now then. Let’s start, shall we. I’ll sketch your little one first because she won’t want to pose for hours and when she’s sick of it she can play or go out in her perambulator with Joan and you can go on posing.’

  It was an excellent arrangement.

  That evening over their supper when Gracie had been fed and settled for the night, she told Jim he was going to have his portrait painted working in the market. ‘An’ you’ll get a fee for it. He said to tell you.’

  For a few seconds Jim wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or annoyed. ‘I hope he won’t expect me ter stand around doin’ nothin’, mind,’ he said. ‘Not with all the work we got. ’E’ll ’ave to put up with a lot a’ movin’ about. When’s ’e thinkin’ a’ comin’?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s a bit short notice ain’ it?’

  Rosie grinned at him. She’d learnt a lot about how to handle his moods in the last few months and she recognised the grumble. He was keeping his end up. ‘You’re such an old grouch,’ she teased. ‘You don’t have to dress up. You just got to be there doing your work. Cheer up! You might enjoy it.’

  Jim made a grimace because he was determined not to do any such thing. Bad enough to have to put up with that damned artist poncing about in the market without having to enjoy it. He didn’t like Mr de Silva and that’s all there was to it, even though on that particular day the man was at his most charming, telling them what a magical place their market was and what a superb picture it was going to make.

  ‘It’s got such style,’ he said to Mr Feigenbaum. ‘All that wonderful tracery — such a good green — and the trains going past overhead and the colour of these stalls and so many interesting faces. I could paint here for months.’

  He sketched all morning, took them all off to the Tavern for beer and sustenance at lunchtime and sketched again all afternoon. It took him a fortnight before he had most of the material he needed and on the last day he worked on the centrepiece, which was a sketch of Rosie holding out her basket for Jim to fill with potatoes and onions and a cabbage and — at his request — a couple of oranges. It was an excellent choice for a centrepiece not just because the colour was so good but also because he’d caught the loving look that passed between them. When Rosie saw the sketch of it in the studio on the following Monday, she was quite touched by it and wished Jim could have been with her and seen it too. And what a work it was when it was finished. Christmas was approaching by then and he’d finished it off by adding holly wreaths and branches of mistletoe above Mr Feigenbaum’s stall.

  ‘As soon as the weather’s good enough I’m going to start on Buckingham Palace,’ he said. ‘The great queen on her plinth staring sourly into the distance and you below her cuddling your daughter. It will make a good contrast.’

  It did and it gave her another two weeks of work but then he turned his attention to the palace and the guardsmen and didn’t need her and money was short again. And to make matters worse she was pretty sure she was carrying again. It was all very difficult. I’ll give him another week, she thought, and then I shall have to go round the local boozers. We must have the money for the rent.

  His call came two days later, cheerful and peremptory just as it had been the last time. He wanted to start work on the Spring picture. ‘I’ve found just the dress for it,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow at nine? We shall be working in the garden so bring a coat for when you’re not posing.’

  It was pleasant to be at work on Spring again, knowing that steady money was going to start coming in, with Joan handy to look after Gracie, and the sun shining and a pretty dress to wear. She stood in the garden, with a huge bunch of daffodils in her arms and a straw hat on her head, completely unburdened, while Gracie was out for her usual afternoon walk, and smiled for the sheer joy of being alive. And Gerry observed her and painted her and fed his dream.

  ‘Penny for ’em,’ he said on their third afternoon, as he stood back from the canvas thinking that he might just have caught that happy smile. And when she looked puzzled, ‘What are you thinking about?’

  She told him, dreamily and without thinking of the proprieties. ‘My new baby,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure about it. Not at first. I mean a child costs a lot of money. But now…’

  ‘When is it due?’ he asked, looking at the painting.

  She smiled at him lazily and told him that too. They were so easy with one another out there in the sunshine. ‘August, I think.’

  ‘Then I think the time has come for you to have a bit of fun,’ he said and put down his brush.

  Fun seemed an odd thing to be offering her. Fun was something that happened when you were young and unencumbered. But he was walking towards her across the lawn, looking very handsome, his face full of mischief, his beard bristling, his eyes daring. ‘Come on,’ he said, and took her by the hand and led her back into the house.


  She went with him, almost as though she was mesmerised, intrigued even though she suspected in a deeper and more sensible part of her mind that it wasn’t what she ought to be doing. And she knew it when they stepped into the house for, as soon as he’d closed the door behind them, he pulled her towards him, lifted her face very tenderly with a gentle finger under her chin and kissed her mouth long and languorously and so pleasurably that she was breathless when he stopped.

  She tried to protest, moving away from him. ‘We shouldn’t,’ she said.

  ‘Quite right,’ he agreed, putting his arms round her waist and smiling at her. ‘But we are and it’s fun isn’t it? A bit of fun with no strings attached. Just what you need.’ And he led her upstairs. She was quite relieved to find that they were walking into the studio and that everything was as it should be, with a fire laid ready in the grate and a canvas waiting on the easel.

  ‘Where do you want me?’ she asked, looking round at her usual posing positions.

  His answer took her breath away for the second time. ‘I want you everywhere in the house,’ he said. ‘I’ve wanted you since the first moment I set eyes on you. You’re the most beautiful, extraordinary creature I’ve ever seen in my life. Please don’t say no to me now. I couldn’t bear it.’ He had his arm round her shoulder. He was leading her to the connecting door. They were in his bedroom and she had a brief rather dizzying glimpse of a high bed with a scarlet coverlet and mounds of cream-white pillows. Then he was unfastening her pretty dress and easing it over her head, gently removing her shoes and stockings and everything else until she was naked except for her chemise. ‘Lovely, lovely Rosie,’ he said kissing her neck.

  She was drowning in sensations, knowing she ought to tell him to stop but wanting him to go on. And really, why shouldn’t she? He could be right. A bit of fun with no strings attached could be just what she needed. Just what she deserved. Jim could be very hard work sometimes, especially when he was low, and he’d been downright unpleasant about this modelling.