The strike lasted for a week during which Lizzie was nearly driven mad with frustration. Though she resented having to do so, she yielded a fwo per cent rise and agreed to better safety measures, but stuck in her toes about the working hours. The question of compensation was left to be discussed between the union and her representatives. Finally she dismissed her over-eager manager.
* * *
On the day that all her machinery was roaring and throbbing again, she felt totally exhausted and her emotions were in turmoil. Part of her was angry when she thought about the people in her mill. They were prepared to betray her; they had no loyalty. ‘I’ve tried to play fair with them and a strike was my reward,’ she said bitterly.
She was disappointed in Charlie, who so obviously had no interest in Green Tree. Most of all she missed Goldie. Before they left for Paris they had been meeting regularly at Gowan Bank but since returning there had been no opportunity for a rendezvous. It was absolutely imperative to see him, to make love with him, to escape from her pressing problems in order to feel strong enough to come back and face them clearly.
By her office messenger she sent her lover a cryptic message: ‘Mrs Kinge is having problems and would like a meeting.’ She knew he would understand that she wanted to rendezvous at Gowan Bank.
She arrived before him and sent away her carriage. She trusted her coachman, a silent and taciturn man who gave no hint in his demeanour of any curiosity about her life. Alone she wandered through the cottage rooms which she and Goldie had had such fun furnishing. Because the cottage had been unused for many weeks, there was a layer of dust over everything. She climbed to the bedroom where she paused in surprise. It was not as she had left it. The bed was roughly made up, but she always made it neatly, with plumped-up pillows and carefully draped lace bedcover. Now the cover lay askew and one of the pillows was on the floor.
Heart thudding, she walked across to the dressing table where a ring of pink face powder marked the wooden ledge beneath the looking glass. A powder box had been lying there – and it was not hers, for she never wore such a bright shade. She dipped a finger in the powder and sniffed its strong perfume, a perfume that she thought she recognized but could not remember where she had smelt it before.
When Goldie’s car came rattling up the lane and stopped at the door, she was waiting for him, fury burning inside her. As soon as he stepped through the door she let fly with a barrage of china that she had stacked on the table by her side.
‘You pig, you brute, how could you bring another woman here? How could you, after everything you’ve said to me! I hate you, I hate you!’ she shouted, raining him with plates.
He ducked, one arm up in front of his face to deflect her missiles.
‘For God’s sake, woman, what are you talking about? I haven’t been here since before we were in Paris. I swear to God I haven’t. What do you mean?’
She stopped pelting him and started to weep. ‘It’s the bed, someone’s been in our bed. And there’s face powder on the dressing table. It’s not mine. I wouldn’t wear such vulgar stuff.’
He walked across to her and took both her hands in his. ‘Listen, Lizzie, if there’s been a woman here, she’s not been with me. I swear it to you. I swear it on my life.’
She looked into his face and saw the honesty in his eyes. He was telling the truth and in relief she collapsed against him, weeping out all her worries and frustrations of the past weeks.
‘I’m so unhappy. I’m so tired. And now this! Who could have been in our house? They’ve spoiled it. Who did you give the key to?’
He shook her gently. ‘I didn’t give the key to anybody. I keep my key in a locked drawer in the office. It was there as usual today and the only key to the drawer is on my watch chain here.’ He brandished a small gold key at her.
‘But someone’s been here. I know they’ve been here. They’ve been making love in our bed, Goldie.’ That was sacrilege to her, the secret enchantment of their hideaway had been broken and it seemed as if their love was also threatened. She was afraid as well as angry and it took all Goldie’s love to calm her.
They remade the bed and spent the afternoon safe within it. When evening was drawing in and swifts were swooping around the eaves, they stood arm in arm in their flower-filled garden.
He told her, ‘You look so lovely here tonight. I want to have your portrait painted. I know just the young man to do it.’
She was astonished. It had never occurred to her to have herself painted, for she had no conceit.
‘But why? I’m a middle-aged woman. If I was going to be painted it should’ve been when I was young,’ she said.
‘I want a portrait of the way you are now. I kept looking at you in Paris and it struck me that you’ve reached your bloom. Some women are only bonny when they’re girls but you’re at your most magnificent now. I want that to be recorded for ever. The young fellow I’ve picked is a great artist. I’ve seen his work and I know he’ll do you justice.’
‘But it’ll take a long time and I’m so busy,’ she protested.
‘He’ll come to your office and make sketches. You’ll only have to sit for him a couple of times after that. Anyway, being forced to sit still for a few hours will do you good, Lizzie.’
She was happy again but there was still the worry about who had used Gowan Bank in their absence. The mystery seemed insoluble, though she puzzled over it for a long time.
* * *
The artist who Goldie had commissioned arrived at Green Tree Mill to sketch her a few days later. She warmed to him on sight because he was so quiet and unobtrusive. It was easy to forget he was there as she went about her daily business and she felt that having her portrait painted was not such a painfully boring business after all.
On the second day she asked the artist, ‘I don’t know your name. What is it?’
When he smiled his long, rather melancholy face sweetened. ‘Just call me Ninian. You mightn’t want to know me if you don’t like the picture. I’ve strict instructions from Mr Johanson about the sort of portrait I’m to paint.’
She was curious. ‘What did he say? Do tell me.’
The smile was there again and understanding showed in his dark eyes. There was no need to make excuses to him about why Goldie Johanson was paying for her portrait. ‘He said you’re a strong character and I’ve to paint you as you are. It’s not to be a pretty picture. It’s to be the portrait of the sort of woman who can knock a man down with a blow to the chin and throw crockery at her lover when she’s jealous.’
She flushed. This young man knew that she and Goldie were lovers but there was something about him that reassured her. He was not likely to talk about it or to think less of them for it. Goldie had chosen well.
How well became apparent as she watched Ninian sketching her. He drew her serious, he drew her angry, he drew her in pensive mood, and each time the pencil caught her exactly and without flattery.
Eventually he decided on the pose that she should adopt for the portrait and told her, ‘We’ll start the painting now if you can spare the time. I’ve a studio down near the docks. Could you be there for two hours tomorrow? I think I can do it in two sittings if we’re lucky.’
Rain was drifting in from the river on the day she went to sit for Ninian. His studio smelt of paraffin oil from a smoking heater in the middle of the floor.
He said, ‘Good, that’s perfect,’ when she slipped off her coat and revealed the Paul Poiret gown.
She posed on a stiff upright chair, sitting half turned towards the painter with her face looking straight at him. Behind her was draped a gorgeous curtain with a brilliant Modernist pattern in red, golds and glowing greens.
She exclaimed over the lovely curtain as she sat down and he said, ‘I bought it in Paris. It goes with your dress.’
He painted very fast, with intense concentration, and though now and again he would say something there was little conversation and she found it therapeutic to sit in silence allowing her mind to
range over her concerns. She still did not know who’d been at Gowan Bank and it worried her.
When the sitting was finished, she stretched and said, ‘I enjoyed that. I’ll come back tomorrow. Can I see what you’ve done before I go?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. I’ll let you see it when it’s finished.’
Next afternoon there was an ease between them. His long-fingered hands deftly squeezed paints on to his palette. As she watched him, she wondered about his life. He had a well-to-do accent and his clothes were expensive. This was no poor artist who lived in a garret.
‘Are you married, Ninian?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m not. I don’t approve of marriage. It’s only legalized prostitution.’
Shocked, she protested, ‘Oh, no, if people are in love it’s wonderful. I was very happy when I was married.’
‘You were lucky then,’ said Ninian. ‘My parents are miserable and so are most of the married people I know.’
‘Don’t you like women?’ she inquired, wondering about his sexuality.
He peered round the corner of his canvas on the tall easel and laughed. ‘I love women. I like them too much. There’s nothing wrong with me that way. It’s just that I don’t approve of marriage. Free love, now, that’s a different thing altogether. If people love each other, they should be able to live together without standing up in front of a minister before they go to bed. Marriage is too tying, too much of a bond.’
Lizzie wanted to protest but, remembering the situation between herself and Goldie, the words were unspoken.
‘You’ve still not told me your name,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it time I knew it? Where do you live?’
‘My name’s Sutherland. When I do go home it’s to a monstrosity of a house called Rivermead which was built by my grandfather at vast expense. He imported plasterers from Italy and artists from France to paint cupids on the ceiling. You know my father.’
‘Not Sooty’s son,’ gasped Lizzie.
‘Sooty’s son exactly,’ said Ninian. ‘Now you know why I kept my identity a secret till I’d finished your picture. I was afraid you’d knock me down or refuse to sit for me or something.’
‘How silly. You can’t help being Sooty’s son – I’m sorry, I mean…’
‘You’re right, I can’t. My father and I don’t see eye to eye about anything, I’m afraid, and if he knew I was accepting a fee from Goldie Johanson he’d have a fit. Especially if he knew the fee was payment for painting Green Tree, his least favourite mill owner in the city.’
When he said this, they both laughed. It was obvious that the idea of his father’s displeasure added to Ninian’s enjoyment of the work.
After the last sitting he still would not allow her to look at the picture. ‘Mr Johanson made me promise to let him see it first, and anyway it’s not quite finished,’ he told her.
A week later, after receiving a message from Goldie, she climbed the steep stairs to the studio in high anticipation. Her lover was there already, sitting on the chair on which she’d posed with his silver-topped cane between his knees. He was beaming broadly and looked more like a teddy bear than ever. She longed to rush up and cuddle him but Ninian was bustling about and she was reticent about showing her feelings for Goldie in front of others.
The portrait stood on an easel in the middle of the floor with a white cloth draped over it. When she was settled, Ninian pulled it off to reveal his work.
The spectators gasped.
‘It’s magnificent, boy, you’ve surpassed yourself,’ said Goldie. ‘If you sent this to the RSA it’d make your name.’
The picture was a riot of brilliant colour. In the middle, slightly off centre, sat a woman staring defiantly at the world. The face was firm and the pose challenging. The brilliantly coloured curtain behind made a wonderful backdrop for her lovely dress.
‘Do I really look like that? Do I look so intimidating?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t want a chocolate-box picture,’ cried Goldie, ‘I wanted you, bristles and all. But look at your eyes, my dear. He’s caught your eyes exactly.’
Lizzie looked at the eyes gazing out at her. They were fearless, but there were questions and a vulnerability in them that made her feel afraid of the power of the young man with the paint brush. He could look into her soul.
‘It’s a wonderful picture,’ she said, and she meant it.
Chapter 28
On her way home from seeing her portrait Lizzie passed the entry to the Vaults and was surprised to hear a terrible din coming from the courtyard. On an impulse she stopped and went up the narrow vennel. The Castle was half demolished and gangs of men with pickaxes were battering away at its thick stone walls. A wave of nostalgia overwhelmed her and she stood gazing around for some time before she slowly turned to walk back to the street. Her mind was full of memories – of her mother, now only a dim figure in her mind; of Bertha and wee Vic; of Johnny, a tycoon and married, Maggy said, to the daughter of another newspaper proprietor; of George, poor George. She wondered if his ghost wandered the wrecked courtyard at night.
So much has happened. When I look back it’s as if all the things in the past never happened to me but to some other woman that I’ve heard about, she mused.
When she reached home she was tired and looked forward to a quiet evening but Charlie was standing before the drawing room fire obviously waiting for her.
‘Hurry up, Mother. You’re late. Alex and Alice are coming for cards. Have you forgotten?’
‘Of course, it’s Tuesday. I had forgotten,’ she said. Since Charlie’s return from the war they’d started playing cards again, with him taking the place of her aunt who’d died in the flu epidemic of 1919. She was surprised when he offered to fill the vacancy, for it did not seem to be the sort of thing that would amuse him, but Tuesday had become card night, the only one of the week when he stayed at home.
When Alex and Alice Henderson arrived Lizzie thought they looked even more incongruous as a couple now that Alex had aged so much and Alice had grown even more fashionably and flighty.
Alex was kissed on the cheek with genuine affection and then Lizzie turned to Alice to press her cheek against the smoothly painted face. As she did so her heart lurched. The smell of face powder that came from Alice took her back to Gowan Bank. It had the same scent as the unknown intruder’s powder. Of course, that was why she thought she’d smelt it before! Shocked, she drew back abruptly but collected herself sufficiently to turn and tinkle the sherry glasses together in an effort to cover up her sudden discomfiture.
All night she could not concentrate on her hands because a voice in her mind kept on saying, Don’t be silly. Alice can’t be the only woman in Dundee who uses that powder. Don’t jump to conclusions. Anyway, how would she get into Gowan Bank? Don’t imagine things.
She found herself studying the other players closely. Alex was maddeningly slow and deliberate, drawing each card out of his hand as if parting with his dearest possession. He must be infuriating to live with, thought Lizzie, but Alice appeared to take everything her husband did with unconcern.
The young woman leaned back in her chair, smoking through an ivory holder. Her deep blue eyes glittered like semi-precious stones and now that her blonde hair was cropped short like a boy’s and moulded close to her head with deep waves on each cheekbone, she looked like a fashion plate. Her crêpe-de-Chine dress was fashionably short, displaying elegant knees. No amount of body bandaging could disguise the fact that the lathe-thin Alice had surprisingly full breasts.
In spite of the training paid for by Alex, his wife’s veneer of sophistication was not complete. When she spoke, she prodded her cigarette holder in the direction of the person she was addressing and from time to time, when she relaxed, her accent slipped and a note of pure Dundee could be heard. In Tay Lodge however she always appeared to be on her best behaviour – or was she? Lizzie stared hard at Alice, trying to divine her secrets, for she was sure the girl had many.
‘I’ve a void,’ she told him, a brilliant and challenging smile on her face. She made her contract and Charlie was the first to congratulate her, rising to pull back her chair as the supper tray was carried in. When the girl brushed past him, his mother noticed with disquiet that, behind the shelter of the table, he ran an appreciative hand down the smooth rump and Alice flexed her hip in a provocative way. Neither of their faces revealed any of this by-play.
When the guests left she lingered with Charlie before the embers of the dying fire. The thoughts that had obsessed her all evening were blurted out. ‘Do you know I own a little house near Errol?’ she asked.
He tried bluff at first. ‘Have you, Ma? What sort of house?’
‘Don’t play the fool with me,’ she said shortly. ‘What I want to know is how you found out about it.’
He walked around the bridge table straightening the chairs before he replied, ‘I always remember my grandfather telling me that it’s impossible to keep a secret in Dundee.’
‘My father would know. He tried hard enough, it’s true,’ she snapped. ‘But who told you about Gowan Bank?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Charlie. ‘It was the coachman, old Thomson, but he won’t tell anyone else. I had to badger the life out of him before he told me where you went on your mysterious afternoons away. Even Maggy doesn’t know.’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘Why did you take Alice there? Her of all people.’
Her son stared levelly at her and again he did not argue. ‘We couldn’t find anywhere else that’s safe.’
Mistress of Green Tree Mill Page 32