A Brighter Tomorrow

by Maggie Ford

  ‘You might have a bit of trouble getting your savings out,’ he’d said.

  When she had asked what kind of trouble, he’d said, ‘I don’t know, a bit of a delay maybe, or something of that sort.’

  How right he’d been. But she wished that if he’d known what she was facing, he might have told her outright, rather than making a mystery of it. Maybe he’d felt he might be wrong and hadn’t wanted to alarm her unnecessarily.

  She’d been conscious of herself, a seventeen-year-old, standing in front of the bank manager’s desk in his carpeted office, with him looking at her from behind steel-rimmed spectacles, his mouth firm beneath his neat moustache. He had made her feel as if she were a recalcitrant young pupil and he the headmaster, as he’d told her that, although the savings were in her name, as a young person, under age and a female to boot, she must seek the permission of whoever had charge of her. Without a traceable father, this was Doctor Bertram Lowe, in whose care she had placed herself.

  ‘But it’s my money!’ Her protest had been cut short.

  She’d been overthrown by his words. ‘An allowance by whoever has been watching over your welfare is of concern to him as to how it is used.’

  ‘But I was the one who saved it. I could have spent it all, but I didn’t.’

  ‘Nevertheless, without his obvious generosity to you, you would have nothing, and that is the way it must be seen.’

  ‘But that’s not fair! He gave it to me, so it’s mine!’

  ‘I’m afraid not, young woman. Until you reach the age of twenty-one you are beholden to your benefactor, who generously took responsibilities for guardianship, be they official or otherwise, of a young, under-age person, who enjoyed every privilege given whilst under his roof.’

  ‘But I’m not under his roof any more. I’ve left.’

  The man had fiddled with the pencil he held. ‘Even so, young lady, he has responsibility for guarding your savings, for which I commend your astuteness for one so young; others of your age might have been tempted to spend instead.’

  Seeing her set expression, ready to argue, he’d leaned forward to put his point across to her. ‘I will explain. As a married woman is accountable to her husband in all things, he being considered responsible for her conduct and her welfare, so you are accountable to your – let us say, to the man who kindly took you into his home, provided you with shelter and food, clothed you and gave you money from his own pocket, not as wages but as an allowance. It was he who opened a bank account for you and it cannot be touched by you without his consent.’

  ‘I’d have been better off spending it!’ she’d retorted and had seen the hint of an almost understanding smile twitch the fair moustache.

  ‘I suggest, young woman, that you speak with Doctor Lowe. He may see your point of view and be swayed by your argument. But until that time I am afraid I can do nothing.’

  It had all left her feeling bitter, knowing how hard she’d saved.

  It did occur to her in a moment of anger that her so-called guardian might even use her hard-earned savings for himself. But common sense asked why he should need to: he had plenty of money; he didn’t need her paltry sum. And if she couldn’t touch the money without his consent, most likely he couldn’t lay his hands on it without her presence. She was ignorant on points of law, but it seemed logical. While it just sat there in the bank, however, she sat here with hardly a penny to her name and this Monday coming would be asked for rent for next week.

  As they had done for the last three days these same thoughts left her with no incentive to shift herself, no ability to think things out. Gazing at the paint-splashed walls and the old table in the centre of the room, that too paint-splashed, she wondered if the previous occupier had had any luck in selling what he painted. It looked more as if he must have failed miserably, or he wouldn’t have had to vacate the place. The thought opened up a moment of speculation. If she could sell just one of her own paintings, there might be enough for rent and a bit left over for fuel and food.

  Coming suddenly to life, Ellie leaped up from the broken chair. Going to one corner where she had stacked the five small paintings she’d brought with her, she lifted them up and looked at them. None was framed, but she’d seen artists’ work hung on the railings of Hyde Park in the Bayswater Road, some framed, some not. People hovered to gaze at them while a hopeful painter looked on. There were all sorts – some just splashes of colour and shapes, others beautiful landscapes she could never hope to emulate, some copied from old masters. Why couldn’t she hang her small offerings on those railings? It was a bit of a walk to Bayswater Road certainly, but she had been brought up to walk. And at least her paintings were different.

  Certainly they were a little out of the ordinary. Michael had told her they were brilliant, that she was tremendously gifted, but had queried why she chose such subjects. But he didn’t understand and she had never been able to bring herself to enlighten him on why she painted what she did. She wasn’t sure herself except that the finished work would leave a sense of fulfilment and relief.

  Thinking of Michael brought on a heavy sense of aching regret and absolute emptiness deep inside, one that persisted in recurring but one she determinedly thrust aside. She thrust it aside now. Pining wouldn’t help. Instead she concentrated on what she had painted in happier times, not all that long ago.

  One of her most graphic works was of the man whose muscles bulged under his loose shirt, whose thighs showed strong beneath ragged trousers as he stood over the huddled figure that could be vaguely interpreted as that of a woman. It would have been a very striking painting had it not been for a hand in one lower corner tensely gripping a pencil, the scene seeming to have been almost obliterated by the thick black marks that pencil had made. Small though the hand was, it dominated the picture and, as if having come from nowhere, unattached to a limb, it seemed to hover, the fingers tight with prominent veins and sinews, portraying the hatred they contained.

  Two others were portraits – one of Doctor Lowe’s wife, the other of herself. The likenesses were recognizable enough, but while the lips on both faces bore a charming smile, the eyes, far from reflecting the smile, held malice in the one of Mary Lowe and contempt in that of herself. But the eyes themselves were so offset from the face as almost to have no connection with it, seeming to be floating. There was a disconcerting feel to them, as if the artist’s hand had been jogged while painting in the eyes. The faces had a naivety about them, as if done by a child, but would hopefully leave a viewer wondering how deliberate was the expression in the eyes that didn’t match the exquisite smile. Ellie had known just what she was about when she’d painted them. Whether anyone else liked them had been immaterial at the time.

  Dressing warmly, she tucked the three paintings under her arm and let herself out of her room.

  * * *

  Despite her warm clothes she felt chilled right through, standing in one spot eyeing every person that chanced to glance at her work. As the overcast sky began to fade to evening and her fellow exhibitors were gathering up their work and moving off, she too prepared to leave. She’d sold nothing. Silly to think she would, with so much competition; and hers would be of interest to only a certain type of person. Another day gone and her funds were dwindling fast.

  Perhaps she should have gone in for a few of a gentler sort of paintings, that didn’t bite back when people stopped to look at them and have them gnawing at their lips as they struggled to make sense of what they saw. But she had perked up when a particular couple had pointed to them, approached with quick, embarrassed smiles in her direction, then resumed their study. They had glanced at each other with troubled expressions.

  ‘What are they trying to say?’ queried the young woman of the man beside her. She had sounded knowledgeable.

  The way she was dressed indicated an arty sort – floppy, fur-trimmed hat, extremely loose coat that concealed every trace of figure, a long, thin, squirrel-fur boa wrapped several times around the neck, the h
ands hidden in an old-fashioned but expensive fox-fur muff.

  ‘I don’t quite know,’ the man answered. ‘But it makes me feel a little uncomfortable.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what it’s meant to do.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s very clever, but I wouldn’t want it hanging in my hall,’ came the reply as they moved off with another brief smile, almost like an apology for having dismissed her work after taking up her time.

  The scenes might not have been to their liking, but at least they were proving food for discussion.

  She went home as darkness fell, cold, with no money, her paintings under her arm, but with a determination to try again tomorrow, fighting off the disgruntled sensation in her breast.

  One thing at least had come about. The young man next to whose exhibits she had placed hers, and who for most of the day had ignored her, had towards the end of the day moved closer to take a look at them.

  ‘I like that,’ he’d said, pointing to the so-called portrait of Bertram Lowe’s wife. ‘It’s a real person, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she’d said a little guardedly, but heartened. He had recognized her interpretation of the inner person using characterization in a rather more vicious way, perhaps. But he’d said he liked it.

  He’d said his name was Felix and she’d given him her name. Talk had fizzled out, a passer-by having stopped to question him about one of his pictures – one of a small brook trickling over stones through a leafy woodland glade – and had actually bought the thing. For most of the day, several passers-by had kept his attention diverted from her as he’d sat on the pavement, smoking the occasional rolled cigarette, at midday falling to eating bread and cheese and drinking from a bottle, though he’d been sipping from it for most of the day.

  Ellie had had only water and some bread spread with a scrape of jam – jam that she trusted would last her a few more days yet. She had never been a big eater, even when with Bertram Lowe and there’d been the chance to be. Even so, the man’s cheese sandwich had looked delicious from where she sat on a little folding stool from the room she rented.

  In her room she returned the paintings to the corner where sat just two more, painted under Michael’s tuition from earlier days and of a more acceptable type – pretty little country scenes. With no money in her pocket she brewed herself some tea and toasted another piece of bread, spreading it with another scrape of jam. At this rate she would end up starving.

  Her only other source of income now looked like being a few bits of clothing. Bertram had insisted she clothe herself as ladies did, entailing at least three changes each day – morning, afternoon and for her, if called for, a nice dress for evening.

  The clothes she’d brought with her hadn’t included those for evenings; they were not needed and took up room. Instead she had stuffed the two bags with a couple of morning and afternoon dresses and a warm jacket, a second pair of button-up boots, necessary underclothing and toiletries, as well as the paintings she’d selected, plus what artists’ requirements she could fit in. It was about all she’d been able to carry. The rest of her clothing she’d worn: warm coat, straw boater, gloves, shawl – the sort of things needed for winter wear. If she now sold two of her dresses, she would at least eat. She felt degraded – having expected her paintings to be snapped up, she was now reduced to selling the clothes off her back. It was depressing.

  The next day, one of those early-December days that suddenly seem to recapture summer, she stood in her spot, the sun bringing her new hope. The weather seemed to have brought out plenty of Friday shoppers, no doubt beginning to browse in preparation for Christmas, and by lunch time the area had workers taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather to enjoy their lunch in the park.

  Ellie’s was again bread and jam washed down with frequent sips of water. The meagre meal made her think of the money she’d so carefully built up in her savings book and how Bertram Lowe, having once praised her for her sound sense, was now preventing her touching one penny of it. Maybe unjustly, but she blamed him, and it made her blood boil.

  If it hadn’t been for him, she and Michael might have been together still. His fault too that she had come down to this. But if he thought she was going to go running back, he was mistaken. Even though her money was being withheld from her, she intended to thrive – somehow.

  To this end she’d desperately included the two pretty landscapes. She wasn’t very hopeful. Poor examples of her earlier work and not very well painted, who’d buy them? Comparing them to some of the talented works of art hanging from the railings, she felt almost ready to pack up and run back to her lodgings, though what good that would have done?

  She was about to yield to temptation when two women, mother and daughter by the look of them, paused in passing. Their gaze riveted on her two landscapes, totally ignoring her three stronger paintings, they came nearer for a better look. Ellie held her breath.

  ‘Just perfect, pet, for your bedroom,’ she heard the older woman say, to which the younger one simpered, ‘Can we afford them?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she was told. ‘If you like them, they can be part of our wedding presents to you and Howard. They’re so pretty.’

  Before she knew it both pictures were sold, the older woman not even haggling over the seven shillings and sixpence that Ellie boldly quoted for each one. So this was what people wanted. She felt oddly disappointed but heartened. Fifteen shillings! Unbelievable. For those nondescript pieces of nothing! Not only was there enough to buy some decent food, there would be enough for more paint, canvas, linseed oil, a little more varnish – crucial if she must do more paintings to sell. And she would have to forget trying to be clever. If people wanted pretty pictures, then pretty pictures she must paint, if she wanted to live – not only live but accrue enough money to enable her to look for her father. This, after all, was her main quest, and if she wanted to continue that, she would have to get down to serious work.

  The problem was where to go to buy the things she wanted. She had never bought artists’ materials herself before. Michael had always provided them, to be reimbursed by Doctor Lowe, as was right and proper.

  ‘Do you know where can I buy paints and canvas?’ she asked Felix when he chanced to look her way.

  He had smiled at her as the two women had hurried off with their purchases. She thought at first that he couldn’t begin to know the utter relief of having money in her hand, but something in that smile told her he knew exactly how she felt, that he had felt the same, perhaps many times.

  Now he smiled again. ‘When we pack up for the night I’ll be able to show you. It’s not far. Do you mind my taking you?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ she returned.

  Having him with her, she wouldn’t feel so out of place buying her own materials with no idea what she should be looking for. She would be glad of the company too.

  Since having come to live in the area she had met no one, talked to no one, except for a few words yesterday with this young man Felix. Tomorrow she’d try her luck here, hopefully pass the time of day with Felix if he turned up; but Sunday would be spent alone. Monday she’d have the privilege of a word or two from the landlord, looking for his rent for the following week. That was a thought: she must keep back some of her money for the rent. In buying her artists’ materials she must be sure to have enough left for that.

  ‘I’ve no idea how much canvas and paints cost,’ she began, but was interrupted by the sight of an elderly man approaching. Short, chubby, for one alarming second he reminded her of Bertram Lowe, but he had a much bushier beard.

  She stood by as he peered at each of her three remaining paintings, the scrutiny seeming to take ages. Suddenly he pointed to the one of the menacing male figure and said in a sharp, abrupt voice, ‘This one tells a story, does it not?’

  ‘Yes,’ she responded, oddly abashed.

  ‘Hmm! A lot of them these days tell a story. I get sick of seeing them.’

  It didn’t strike her as a ho
peful remark. Why did people make such comments if they weren’t interested in buying anything?

  ‘Far too melodramatic for my liking,’ the man went on, his voice carrying. ‘Some bloody voluptuous, diaphanously clad female chained to a rock, sea foaming around her waist, the same damned painting of the same female gazing heavenwards and the same damned sea receding – bloody rubbish! But this one I like. This one has some strength to it. I’d say almost vicious. You didn’t do this, young lady. Who’s the artist?’

  ‘I am,’ she said, rankled that he doubted her abilities.

  She saw his eyes squint with incredulity as he regarded her. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, me!’

  He was studying her as if imagining her to be lying.

  ‘Why not me?’ she shot at him.

  His expression didn’t change. ‘You surprise me. How would a delicate young lady concern herself to paint such – I’d go as far as to say, malevolent themes?’

  Ellie burst into laughter despite her initial annoyance. ‘Rather than sweet little watercolours, pretty little landscapes?’

  He didn’t laugh, and although there came a glint of amusement into his pale eyes, he remained serious. ‘I wonder what has caused you to choose such – may I say, strange subjects? – all three of them.’

  Ellie sobered. ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘Hmm,’ came the response. ‘They intrigue me. But I would like to buy the self-portrait.’

  She was astounded. ‘How did you know it was of me?’ The man smiled at last. ‘Odd as it may seem, there is no mistaking it for anyone other than yourself. Though why you see yourself in that light I can only guess. How much are you asking for it?’

  Taken by surprise, with no idea what she should be asking, Ellie hesitated. She’d sold those two earlier paintings for what she’d thought was a fair price, astounded that the price asked had been accepted without question. She could have asked more and, pleased though she was at having sold something, she’d wanted to kick herself. Incredibly, she might be making yet another sale almost on top of selling the two landscapes; but what to ask? He seemed to see her hesitation as a preliminary to a spot of haggling. His voice grew sharp.