Bel Lamington

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Good?”

  “I mean sometimes sons aren’t interested in their father’s business.”

  “That’s true,” Mr. Copping agreed.

  “But of course it’s a terribly interesting sort of business!”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So do I,” declared Mr. Copping with a chuckle.

  Bel had been a little shy of Mr. Copping at first, but he was so friendly that she was shy no longer; besides, it was obvious that he wanted to chat while he was waiting for Mr. Brownlee’s return.

  “When is your son coming, Mr. Copping?” she asked.

  “Well, that’s the question. Brownlee thinks he should wait a bit. Brownlee thinks we should put it off until he returns from South America. I don’t know, I’m sure.”

  Bel did not know either. She was aware that Mr. Wills was making trouble about the matter, but that was delicate ground.

  “Jim is abroad at present,” continued Mr. Copping. “He’s coming back soon and wants to start at once—learning the ropes as he calls it—and if he doesn’t start at once he won’t have anything to do. I don’t want him running about idle. It isn’t good for a young chap—’specially a chap like Jim. He’s keen as mustard. Bit of a problem, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Bel. “Yes, it is.”

  “We called the boy James,” continued Mr. Copping in a reflective tone. “We called him after his great grandfather, who began the whole thing. I thought it time there should be another James Copping. His mother agreed. You see, Miss—er——”

  “Lamington,” Bel told him.

  “Lamington? That rings a bell. I used to know a fellow called John Lamington. He was a gunner—awfully nice fellow with a pretty wife. Frightful thing happened. They were both killed in a motor smash—absolute tragedy.”

  “My father and mother,” said Bel looking at him with wide eyes.

  “What? Not really? My dear girl, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have mentioned it—blurted it out like that!”

  He looked so distressed that Bell hastened to re-assure him. “It’s all right,” she said, somewhat incoherently. “I mean it’s so long ago—I was only three years old—I don’t remember them at all. My aunt brought me up. She was a wonderful person.”

  “Your aunt?”

  “My father’s sister, Beatrice Lamington,” Bel told him. “She had a house in Southmere and I lived there with her all my life. Then she died, so—so I came to London.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Copping, gazing at her with his very blue eyes.

  Somehow Bel had a feeling that those very blue eyes saw a good deal—a great deal more than what appeared on the surface. She had been inclined to think that Mr. Copping was what is known as “a sleeping partner” of the firm; she thought so no longer.

  “Go on,” said Mr. Copping encouragingly. “You came to London and you got a job with Copping, Wills and Brownlee. How did you like it, eh? A bit lonely, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was, rather. I enjoy the work very much—I told you that, didn’t I?—but London is rather a lonely sort of place unless you’ve got a lot of friends.”

  “What are you going to do while Brownlee is away? Having a holiday?”

  “Mr. Brownlee wants me to be here,” explained Bel. “You see I know quite a lot about how things are done.”

  “Oh, you do, do you? That’s very interesting,” said Mr. Copping. “Very interesting indeed.”

  When Mr. Brownlee returned from his meeting he found his senior partner and his secretary chatting together as if they had known each other all their lives. He was pleased, but rather surprised because he was somewhat in awe of his senior partner. Unfortunately the letters which ought to have been ready for him to sign were lying neglected upon the table. His secretary apologised for the delay.

  “My fault, my fault,” declared Mr. Copping. “If anyone gets the sack it’ll have to be me.”

  They all laughed heartily at this preposterous jest.

  Bel gathered up the letters and hastened from the room, leaving the two gentlemen to have their talk in private.

  *

  3

  The Welcome Gallery consisted of two large rooms over a curio shop in a turning off Shaftesbury Avenue. The entrance was anything but imposing for the shop was small and dirty; it sold pictures and artists’ materials and various pieces of china and second-hand furniture. When Bel Lamington pushed open the door a bell rang and the proprietor—a tall old man with a bald head and enormous spectacles perched on a beaky nose—appeared from the back premises and asked her what she wanted. Coming from the bright sunlit street into the dim overcrowded shop Bel’s eyes were blinded and for a moment or two she hesitated, uncertain whether she had found the right place.

  “The Welcome Gallery?” she said doubtfully.

  The old man gestured to a steep stair at one side of the shop and stood there amongst his treasures watching her go up.

  Bel did not look back, but all the same she was aware that he was watching her with considerable interest.

  The stairs emerged into a surprisingly large room, full of light. It was bare except for the pictures on the walls and some wheel-back wooden chairs. About a dozen people were there, walking round with catalogues in their hands, looking at the pictures and talking to each other. There were two men with beards and a girl with shaggy hair and bare legs and sandals. There were several other people as well but they did not look “hopeful”. None of them looked as if they had money to spend on pictures; most of them looked as if they lacked money to spend on a square meal.

  Bel seized a catalogue and sat down on a chair in the corner. Later she would have to walk round and look at the pictures, because Mark would ask her about them, but at the moment she wanted to hide. It would be so awful if any of these people recognised her—so dreadfully embarrassing. They wouldn’t, of course, thought Bel. They couldn’t possibly recognise her because, although she had posed for the picture, the woman wasn’t like her at all. Bel could see no resemblance between the woman she saw in the mirror when she did her hair and the angular female in the picture. She had said so at the party and that queer young man with the beard had told her it was a picture of her soul. She had not bothered about it at the time because she was too dazed with the noise and the heat to take it in properly, but now that she thought about it she found the idea distinctly unpleasant.

  From where she was sitting she could not see “Greenfingers”. There were so many pictures and they leapt at you from the walls, clamouring for attention. Some of them clamoured by reason of their colour—reds and yellows and blues and greens, so bright that they hurt your eyes—others by reason of the queer angles from which they had been painted. They seemed to be toppling out of their frames.

  There was a very large picture just in front of where she was sitting; it depicted a table with a coarse white cloth and two jars of flowers. Bel liked the flowers, they were lovely, but the table was tilted so acutely that it looked as if the jars were about to slide off and upset onto the floor. The moment she saw it she felt an almost uncontrollable desire to leap up and avert the impending disaster. Of course this showed that the picture was extremely well painted, but what an unrestful picture to have! She tried to imagine it hanging upon the wall of her sitting-room and decided that she couldn’t bear it. No, not even if it was given to her as a present.

  Beside this picture there was one of a sea-green monster with a rock in the background and some tangled seaweed. There was something rather horrible about it—horrible but interesting. Bel was sufficiently interested to look it up in the catalogue and discovered that Number 21 was “A Woman resting”. She wondered vaguely whether some woman had posed for it—as she herself had posed for “Greenfingers”—and if so whether the woman had been pleased.

  Bel felt rather depressed by her inability to understand the pictures . . . but it was no use sitting here glooming, she had got to go rou
nd and look at them as intelligently as she could, so she rose and began her survey.

  *

  4

  There was a second room, through an archway, and there were only two people in it: a young girl in well-cut tweeds and a man with grey hair. Their backs, which was all that Bel could see, were so alike that she immediately decided they were father and daughter. She was interested in them because they were different from the other people in the gallery (“Not artistic” as Bel put it to herself) but all the same they were going round in a conscientious manner, looking carefully at each picture and comparing it with the catalogue.

  “Oh Daddy!” exclaimed the girl. “Here’s one that looks quite like a human being!”

  This was said in a highly surprised tone and although she had not spoken loudly the girl’s voice was perfectly distinct. It was also familiar . . . and when the girl turned towards her father and smiled Bel recognised her at once. It was Louise! Yes, quite definitely Louise Armstrong! They had been at school together. It was five years since she had seen Louise but there was no mistaking the beauty of her profile, the small nose, the dark curls and the charming smile. How strange to see Louise here!

  They had not been close friends at school for Louise was two years younger which made a lot of difference when you were sixteen and eighteen, but now of course it made no difference at all. We’re the same age, thought Bel vaguely as she went forward to speak to Louise.

  “Goodness, it’s Bel!” cried Louise. “How amazing! You haven’t changed a bit!”

  “Neither have you! I knew you at once.”

  “It seems ages!”

  “Yes—ages.”

  “But you’re just the same.”

  When they had finished assuring each other that they had not changed and exclaiming at the coincidence of their meeting Louise turned to her father.

  “It’s Bel Lamington, Daddy. We were at St. Elizabeth’s together. Isn’t it lovely meeting her like this?”

  “Delightful,” he agreed, smiling and shaking hands.

  He was very like Louise, thought Bel. The same shape of nose—though somewhat larger—and the same charming smile. Bel remembered that he was a doctor and that they lived somewhere near Oxford . . . she could not remember the name of the town.

  Having chatted agreeably for a few minutes their attention returned to the picture on the wall and Bel saw that it was her picture—or more correctly Mark’s picture—which Louise had pronounced to be “quite like a human being”. Bel knew it well, of course, but somehow it looked different now that it had been framed and was hanging on a wall. The girl in the green overall was kneeling upon a stone-paved floor with a trowel in one hand and a seedling in the other. Before her was a stone trough filled with soil. The girl was thin and angular with a very long neck and windswept hair, she was bending over the trough absorbed in her work.

  “Number thirty-five, ‘Greenfingers’ by Mark Desborough,” announced Louise, reading from the catalogue. “Oh Daddy, it’s Mark’s picture!”

  “I like it,” declared Dr. Armstrong. “Yes, it’s interesting and unusual—much better than I expected. What a relief!”

  “A relief?” asked Bel.

  Louise laughed. She said, “We came here to see Mark’s picture and now that we’ve found it we needn’t look at any more pictures. We can go and have tea. That’s why Daddy is relieved.”

  “Not only that,” said Dr. Armstrong. “Tea will be welcome of course, but I shall be able to tell my nephew that I think his picture is interesting and unusual.”

  “Daddy is a very truthful person,” explained Louise.

  “How extraordinary!” Bel exclaimed in astonishment.

  “Extraordinary to be truthful?” asked Dr. Armstrong smiling.

  “No, of course not. Extraordinary that Mark is your nephew.”

  “Do you mean you know Mark?”

  Bel nodded. “As a matter of fact Greenfingers is me.”

  “Greenfingers is you? Do you mean you posed for the picture?”

  “Yes,” said Bel.

  Dr. Armstrong looked at the picture more carefully and then looked at Bel. “I see no resemblance,” he declared.

  “It isn’t the least bit like you!” exclaimed Louise.

  Bel was delighted to hear their verdict but she felt it her duty to explain. “No, it isn’t,” she agreed. “But Mark didn’t intend it to be like me. He said if I wanted a likeness I could go and have my photograph taken.”

  “But you posed for the picture?” asked Dr. Armstrong.

  “Yes.”

  “How very strange!”

  “Let’s go and have tea somewhere,” suggested Louise. “We don’t have to look at any more pictures and I’m longing for a cup of tea. Bel can come too, and we can talk.”

  “That would be very pleasant indeed,” agreed Dr. Armstrong.

  *

  5

  There was a tea-room quite near the Welcome Gallery and here the Armstrongs and Bel found a table and settled down.

  “Now, tell us all about everything,” said Louise as she took off her gloves.

  “That’s rather a tall order,” said Bel smiling. As a matter of fact she was so unused to talking about herself that she found it difficult to begin. Besides, she was not sure that the Armstrongs really wanted to hear “all about everything”. Why should they?

  “Do you still live in Sussex with your aunt?”

  “No, Aunt Beatrice died two years ago. I live in London.”

  “What do you do?” asked Dr. Armstrong.

  “Business,” replied Bel. “I’ve got a post as secretary to Mr. Brownlee. He’s a partner in Copping, Wills and Brownlee.”

  “It’s a very good firm.”

  “I know. I was lucky to get it. Mr. Brownlee is very nice.”

  “Where do you live?” Louise enquired.

  “In a flat in Mellington Street.”

  “But you’ve got a garden,” suggested Dr. Armstrong. He was thinking of the picture of Greenfingers.

  “Not a proper garden,” Bel told him. She hesitated for a moment and then continued, “I had to have something. I mean I missed the garden—frightfully. There was a flat roof outside the window of my sitting-room so I started with a few pot plants . . .”

  When Bel had finished telling them about her garden—and a little about her life—she decided she had told them enough and it was her turn to ask questions.

  “Oh we still live at Ernleigh,” said Louise. “Daddy is the doctor of course so he’s kept very busy looking after his patients and I’m kept very busy looking after him. We’ve lots of friends but they’re mostly a good deal older than I am. I mean most of the girls have jobs of one sort or another.”

  “You have a job,” said Dr. Armstrong.

  “Oh yes,” she nodded. “You’re a whole-time job, darling. I just meant most of the girls go away from home. It’s a pity, really. I mean it would be nice if I had more friends of my own age. Of course I’ve got lots to do so I’m perfectly happy, but still . . .”

  “Perhaps Miss Lamington could come to us for a weekend,” suggested Dr. Armstrong.

  “Oh—yes—lovely idea!” exclaimed Louise. “Bel, you must. When can you come?”

  Bel hesitated. People sometimes said this sort of thing without meaning it . . . and she was not sure whether she really wanted to go away just now. Perhaps Mark would not come any more now that the picture was finished—but perhaps he would.

  “It’s awfully kind of you,” said Bel. “But—but I don’t quite know. I mean——”

  “Let’s leave it,” Dr. Armstrong suggested. “You could ring us up, couldn’t you? Ring us up if you find you can come. Any time will suit us, won’t it, Lou?”

  “Any time means never,” said Louise in a disappointed voice.

  It was obvious that the Armstrongs really meant it . . . which was nice of them, thought Bel.

  Chapter Five

  He won’t be there, said Bel to herself as she took the latch-
key out of her handbag. Of course he won’t be there. The picture is finished. There’s no reason for him to come.

  But no sooner had she opened the door than she smelt tobacco-smoke. Bel went to the window and peeped out . . . and there he was, sitting in the deck-chair with his long legs stretched out and his feet in the usual dirty tennis shoes propped upon the edge of the green tub.

  As she opened the window he looked round and smiled.

  “Hullo!” he said.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” declared Bel a trifle breathlessly. “I mean the picture is finished.”

  “Pictures aren’t everything.”

  “I thought they were—to you.”

  “They mean a lot but not quite everything. Did you go and see it?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s why I’m late.”

  “How did it look?”

  “Different,” said Bel thoughtfully. “The frame makes it look more like a real picture—if you know what I mean.”

  Mark roared with laughter.

  “Oh Mark, I’m sorry!” exclaimed Bel. “I didn’t mean it like that at all. I only meant that I’m used to seeing pictures framed and hanging on walls.”

  “Oh well, I’ll forgive you this time. What about the other pictures? Did you see Edward’s?”

  “Edward’s?”

  “Yes, Edward Yates, that fellow you met at the party.”

  Bel had met a great many people at the party (and knew none of their names) so she had no idea whether she had seen Edward’s picture or not. She wondered if Edward Yates was the man with the beard who had said that “Greenfingers” was a picture of her soul . . . but somehow it seemed safer not to pursue the subject.

  “Oh, there were hundreds of pictures,” said Bel vaguely. “I hadn’t time to look at them all.”

  “Which did you like best?”

  This was easy. “Greenfingers, of course.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. It was much the best. The Armstrongs thought so too.”

  “The Armstrongs?”