Molly’s waspish ‘Hear, hear,’ was taken up by several others, but Eldridge’s expression was one of innocent delight, looking round with his hand spread on his chest as if asking, Who, me …?
‘So,’ continued Gerry, steady under fire, ‘I ask you to raise your glasses and join me in toasting Mr Fox!’
Of course they all joined in with that, except for Molly, who said nothing but tilted her glass very slightly in Eldridge’s direction.
The much-decried prize turned out to be not one, but two decent bottles of champagne. It was won jointly by Clive, one of the locals, and Lucia, with chief honours going to Lucia for having overtaken so many others. Each had a vine leaf as proof of completion. Barbara’s cluster of grapes lay on her dressing table upstairs.
With cheese and biscuits on the table, there was a certain amount of seat-swapping. Barbara went to sit by Lucia.
‘Congratulations. We should have stuck with you.’
‘Oh, I’m afraid I’m terribly competitive with that sort of thing,’ said Lucia, ‘I really am like a hound, I simply take off.’
‘Do you know our fox?’
‘Not at all. I gather he’s staying here while he does a portrait of one of Marjory’s horses.’
Barbara recalled Stanley’s ‘some sort of painter’ remark. ‘Is he well known? Should I have heard of him?’
‘I don’t think so. I gather from Gerry they’re doing him a bit of a favour. Down on his luck, noblesse oblige etcetera.’
‘Molly seems to know him.’
‘Yes, but Molly knows everyone, whether they like it or not.’
They laughed together at this witty assessment. Barbara glanced at Eldridge. He was leaning forward on the table, his head resting sideways on his hand as he listened attentively to whatever Gerry was saying. His over-long black hair coiled from between his fingers. Neither hair nor fingers looked completely clean but perhaps, she thought, that was painters for you.
Gerry rose and Eldridge sat back abruptly, then looked straight at Barbara. Not for the first time, he seemed to know she’d been watching him. He smiled broadly and, to her consternation, got up and walked round the table to her side.
‘Am I interrupting?’
‘No, no,’ said Lucia, pushing her chair back. ‘I’m going up to pack.’
‘If you’re sure …’ Eldridge sat down, his eyes on Barbara. ‘Are you off this afternoon?’
‘Yes. Marjory’s taking a few of us to the station at three.’
‘What a perfect brick she is.’
This was said straight-faced, but Barbara couldn’t be sure he wasn’t joking.
‘Now tell me,’ he said, ‘how is the brigadier?’
‘Actually I don’t know. He rejoined his regiment in India some time ago.’
‘No! Has he indeed? Well, well, I thought I hadn’t seen him for a while.’ He grinned. ‘Not since I spotted you in the window that time.’
‘We were just taking a day trip.’ Why did she feel this need to explain? ‘He wanted to show me the house.’
‘A pretty decent house, I’ve always thought. Not that I’ve ever been inside it. Not beautiful, but ample.’ He spread a hand. ‘Comfortable.’
‘Yes.’
‘Pretty views from up there.’
‘Yes,’ said Barbara, ‘there are.’ Oh dear, she was not proving scintillating company, but Eldridge continued to gaze smilingly at her, allowing a pause to stretch out, before saying,
‘Rather too big, I should say, for one fellow on his own.’
‘It’s well looked after.’
‘Oh, of course, because he’s never there. The brigadier.’ There was something in the way he said ‘brigadier’ that made her think he was making fun of Stanley, not just his rank but his person.
‘He will be one day,’ she said. ‘When he comes out of the army.’
‘Excellent,’ said Eldridge, as if this had taken a load off his mind. ‘And what about you, Barbara, have you come far?’
‘Only about a couple of hours on the train.’ She found she was disinclined to say exactly where from.
‘And how do you know all these people?’ He glanced around. ‘I only ask because, of course, I’m not a guest.’ He inclined his head and lowered his voice. ‘Trade, don’t you know.’
She decided to comment on this rather than answer his question. ‘But I understand you’re an artist.’
‘Really? Who told you that?’
‘Lucia, just now. She said you’re painting one of Marjory’s horses.’
‘I am. Pancho. He’s a model sitter, no trouble at all. Though, naturally, I’d prefer to be painting Marjory herself. Who knows? Portraitist to the county set would keep me in smokes for a while.’
‘When will the painting be finished?’
‘It very nearly is. Between us, I’m spinning things out a bit. I’m enjoying myself down here, it’s a cushy billet. Trying to make myself useful in other ways, like today. I reckon I was a good fox, don’t you? Maybe I could hire out … do you think there’s a market for that sort of thing?’
Barbara laughed in spite of herself. ‘You never know!’
Pleased with this effect, Eldridge laughed too.
‘What else do you do?’ she asked.
‘Anything, I’m not proud. Split logs, clean the car, help in the stable. Do a bit of non-artistic painting around the house … You may have noticed the old place could do with it.’ He noticed her quick, embarrassed glance. ‘Don’t worry, nobody’s listening.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve made yourself indispensable.’
‘I’m good at keeping my head down. Gerry tolerates me – he’s the one who asked me after all, so he has to. Marjory’s slowly coming round. Below stairs, Streetly and co, regard me as a complete bounder.’
‘Why’s that?’ she asked, though she could imagine why.
‘Search me. It’s desperately unfair.’ He tapped the edge of the table as if he’d come to a decision. ‘Would you like to see the painting?’
It would have seemed impolite to refuse. On the way out of the dining room, he said to Marjory, ‘I’m taking Barbara to see the picture.’
‘Honoured indeed. I’m not allowed to look till it’s finished. Be warned – I shall be asking for your very honest opinion.’
This time, he led her through the boot room and out of the back door. They emerged into the stable yard next to the garages and, as before, went through the door into the kitchen garden. Next to the greenhouse with the giant vine was a terraced row of three brick-built outhouses. Eldridge pulled a string with a key attached from the neck of his shirt and unlocked the middle one, which had windows on either side of the door.
‘They had to clear this for me, but it makes a perfect studio because …’ he pointed upwards and she saw that there was a large, flat pane of glass in the roof. ‘… Excellent light as well as privacy. When the old boy was alive he kept this as a sort of den for his specimens and whatnot, then it was a tool store until I came along.’
As well as the easel – set at an angle facing away from the door – there was only a hard chair and two trestle tables set at right angles to each other. One was covered with a clutter of oil paints, trays, tins and jars. On the other were scattered papers with sketches and scribbled notes and what looked like a wartime primus at the far end. There was also the kit necessary for making hot drinks: a mug and spoon, a tin saucepan, sugar and a couple of stained paper packets with gaping tops.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Eldridge, reading her thoughts as usual, ‘I shan’t offer you tea. Come and look at the great work.’
He appeared confident and easy, as he led her round to the other side of the easel; there was no cloth over it.
‘There you are, Pancho.’
‘Oh.’ Barbara studied the picture with her head on one side. ‘That’s very …’ She leaned forward, arms folded. ‘Of course I don’t know the subject so it’s hard for me to— But that’s marvellous. Very striking.’
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bsp; He stood alongside her, lighting a cigarette. ‘Think Marjory will like it?’
‘Yes. Very much!’
‘I think so too and, of course, once it’s in a nice big, showy frame …’
‘Exactly. Like an ancestor.’
‘An ancestor – ha!’ He stepped forward and flicked a speck off the corner of the canvas. ‘Like an ancestor, but much more important.’
She laughed and Eldridge joined in, looking at her. ‘I’d like to paint you, Barbara.’
‘Me?’ She hoped he couldn’t see her blush. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake.’
‘Except,’ he quirked an eyebrow, ‘I couldn’t do you justice and you couldn’t afford me.’
So they were laughing again as they left the shed.
‘Shall we go back through the yard? Then you can see Pancho and judge whether I’ve caught a likeness.’
Barbara had been a little uncomfortable giving her opinion on the painting, but animals were more familiar territory. One of the lads was out hosing down the yard and gave them a nod; not, she noticed, the cheery greeting she and Molly had received that morning.
Pancho was sixteen and a half hands of gleaming hunter in the peak of condition, standing hock-deep in fresh straw, blowing and stretching his neck as they leaned on the door to admire him. Barbara stroked the rubbery, velvet-soft patch of nose between his nostrils.
‘Handsome boy … You’re a beauty, aren’t you?’
‘That’s what I thought. Though, admittedly, I haven’t met many horses.’
‘Nor me, or not as big as this. But I rode a lot as a child.’
‘And now?’
She shook her head. ‘My old pony’s retired.’
Eldridge didn’t pat the horse. Instead, he turned round and leaned back on the door, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He shook one loose and offered it to Barbara.
‘You?’
Suddenly she wanted one. ‘All right, thanks.’
He lit both their cigarettes with a match from a box.
‘So what do you think? Have I captured a likeness?’
‘Definitely,’ she said. ‘You definitely have.’
‘What a sweet thing to say, Barbara.’ He gazed at her in that warm, speculative way of his, his jaw resting on his thumb, smoke wreathing round his head. ‘How perfectly sweet.’
It wasn’t till she was back in her room that she allowed her thoughts free rein, as if to do so before would have been to let them loose all over her face for all to see.
The picture was awful: crude, highly coloured, lacking imagination or finesse – what her father would have called ‘a daub’. Not even dashingly modern, just … oh, terrible! She pressed her fists to her temples in an agony of embarrassment. She could not begin to imagine what Marjory would make of it and as for a big, showy frame – a patch of wall in the boot room was surely the best that he could hope for. The situation might almost have been funny, except that (and she could not begin to analyse or find the origins of this) it inspired in her a sharp pang of some unexpected emotion: not pity, not scorn, but – yes – tenderness, for the patently unscrupulous, untalented fox, Johnny Eldridge.
Fortunately her reserved window seat on the train was well away from the others. The only other person in the compartment was an old gentleman sleeping soundly, with his chins falling in ripe folds over his collar and his watch chain rising and falling with his whistling snores. She closed the door and put her case on the overhead rack without disturbing him. As the train pulled away she waved to Marjory – poor, unsuspecting Marjory – and leaned her head against the window. The dun-coloured countryside spooled past slowly, then briskly as the train picked up speed.
She had not realised how tired she was. Her body felt heavy, her cheek jolted against the glass. She would soon be as dead to the world as her travelling companion. But as her head swam and her eyelids drooped, she sensed – she knew – that a change had taken place. She was not the same girl who had made the journey down yesterday.
A seed had been sown.
Seven
1953
It must have been another half hour at least before Barbara heard Maureen’s key unlock the back door. The sound made her jump and she shrunk even further back, scraping a hole in her stocking on the rough edge of a tile. A click and a thread of light appeared at the bottom of the door. The clunk of keys and her bag on the table, the brisk footsteps across the kitchen and the rattle of water from the scullery tap persuaded Barbara it was safe to come out.
She was so cold and stiff that she had to pull herself up by clutching the edge of the shelf. Upright, her vision darkened for a moment and she leaned on the shelf till it cleared. As she opened the larder door, she came face to face with the startled Maureen.
‘Madam!’ Maureen took a step back, hand on heart. ‘Goodness gracious you gave me the fright of my life!’ She put the kettle down with a crash. ‘I thought you were in the drawing room!’
‘I’m sorry I gave you a shock, Maureen.’ Unsteadily, Barbara reached for a chair and sat down at the table.
‘Do you feel quite all right? Mrs Govan? Are you ill?’
‘No, don’t worry. I rather stupidly slipped and fell over.’
‘In the larder? What happened? I hope you didn’t bang your head.’
‘No, nothing like that. Just a fall, but it gave me a shock.’
‘Of course it did.’ Maureen was all business now. ‘I’m going to put this kettle on right away. Is the electric fire on along there? I’ll pop and take a look. You need to get warmed up.’
She put the kettle on the aga and bustled off down the corridor. Barbara leaned her head on her hands and was still in this attitude when Maureen came back.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Still a bit woozy.’
‘Why don’t you go and make yourself comfy. I’ve turned on three bars, I’ll bring some tea in a tick.’
‘Actually, Maureen, I wonder—’
‘What is it Madam?’
‘I think I might have something stronger.’
‘Oh …?’ Maureen didn’t quite manage to conceal her surprise. ‘And why not? It’s good for shock and if you can’t have a drop of something tonight of all nights,’ her face relaxed into a beatific smile. ‘Wasn’t the ceremony lovely?’
‘It was. Most impressive.’
‘A pity about the weather, but you can’t have everything.’
‘No. Maureen, I think there’s some sherry on the sideboard in the dining room.’
‘Right away. Oops!’ the kettle began its thin scream and she moved it off the hot plate. ‘Don’t get up.’
When she returned, decanter in hand, Barbara said, ‘Would you like to join me?’
‘Well, thank you Madam, if you’re sure?’
‘Quite sure. And I’m quite happy to sit here for a moment.’
‘Very good. I’ll get the glasses.’
Barbara wasn’t sure her legs would have carried her as far as the drawing room. Beneath the table, her knees were still trembling and her hands were clammy; she wiped them on her skirt. Maureen came back with the glasses.
‘Sit down with me, do.’ Barbara’s voice sounded flat and peremptory, but now Maureen was satisfied there was no crisis, she was too exhilarated to notice and chatted away for the next several minutes about the events of the day. She and her sister’s family had been to the village hall to watch the ceremony, followed by tea, cake, silly games and singing. It had been a wonderful party, with all ages thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Barbara watched Maureen’s mouth, as the restorative warmth of the sherry crept through her. The words seemed to be coming from some distance away and the events they described from still further.
‘Madam?’
‘Yes?’
‘I was just asking: how about you? Did you have a nice day?’
‘Yes – yes I did thank you. I wonder, Maureen, when you got back just now, did you see anyone outside the house?’
�
��Outside? You mean in the lane?’
‘Either there or even in the garden. Anywhere.’
‘No, no one. Not a soul.’
‘And you’d have noticed, wouldn’t you? If there had been?’
‘Of course, I would.’ Maureen, now quite pink-cheeked, cocked her head on one side. ‘Why do you ask, Madam?’
‘It’s probably nothing. I just thought I heard someone. You know what it’s like when you’re alone. Once you have the thought it won’t go away.’
Maureen downed the last mouthful of amontillado. ‘Well you’re not on your own any more. Would you like to go and sit by the fire now?’
It occurred to Barbara that Maureen probably wanted to settle down in here with the kitchen wireless and a further discreet nip from Stanley’s decanter.
‘Yes, I will.’
‘Can I bring you something nice on a tray? Scrambled eggs?’
‘No thank you, I’m not hungry. I’ll probably go up to bed before long.’
‘Good idea, Madam. Tuck yourself up. It’s been a long day.’ She watched as Barbara rose carefully from the table. ‘Want me to come along with you? We don’t want you falling over again.’
‘I shan’t.’ Barbara had a sudden unpleasant insight into what it would be like to be old and to have people fussing around her. ‘It was an accident, I’m perfectly all right now. And don’t feel you have to wait up either, Maureen. I’ll switch everything off in the drawing room.’
‘Good night then Madam.’
‘Good night.’
In the drawing room, the electric fire glowed fiercely red in front of the fire screen with its tapestry peacock. The curtains were not yet drawn. Outside it had finally stopped raining and now, at eight o’clock, it was barely dusk. The garden gleamed with wetness, the rhododendrons sagged. Barbara made herself go to each of the two windows and stand for a moment, looking out, before pulling the curtains. A couple of blackbirds hopped and pecked on the grass.
The Rose in Winter Page 7
