“I wouldn’t call it a studio, but I have a small space in my flat I use for painting sometimes. Would you really not mind coming over? I wouldn’t want to tire you out after you’ve been at work all day.”
“Working at Bailey’s isn’t tiring, but it can be quite dull. Coming to see you would give me something to look forward to.”
“In that case, how can I refuse?” Milo opened the desk and took out a scrap of paper, upon which he scribbled an address. “What time do you finish work?”
“About half past six.” Evan took the piece of paper and saw that he knew the respectable street where Milo lived. “It shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes to get there.”
“This is very good of you, Evan. But won’t you miss your evening meal?”
“Missing one of Mrs. Grindley’s dinners would not be a great tragedy, believe me.”
“Even so, I wouldn’t want you going hungry on my account. Perhaps you could eat at my flat once we’ve finished. I’m not a great cook, but I’m sure I could rustle up a sandwich.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’d be glad to join you for something to eat. Would Tuesday be all right to come round? We sometimes finish late on a Monday.”
“Tuesday it is, then.”
Milo grabbed his satchel and headed for the door, putting on his glasses as he went. Evan followed him into the corridor and ventured a question he’d wanted to ask all afternoon.
“Milo, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why do you wear your glasses outside and not when you’re painting or in the museum? Most people do it the other way round.”
“I do like to be different, I suppose.” Milo locked the studio door and they headed for the stairs. “I suffer from myopia, which simply means I’m short-sighted. I always have been, but it seemed to get worse after the war. The doctors said it might have something to do with the explosions and gunfire, all those unnatural lights, but it’s more likely a coincidence.”
Milo seemed quite calm as he talked about the war, unlike other men Evan knew, who blanched at the mention of it years later and rarely spoke of their experiences. Evan wondered what Milo had done during those four dreadful years, whether he’d fought alongside the brave soldiers in the trenches or taken a more strategic role. Remembering the warmth with which Haynes had greeted him, Evan guessed Milo had been close to the action. He only hoped Milo’s social class and poor eyesight had kept him from the worst of the conflict, and as they said their goodbyes at the college gates, Evan hoped he would find out more about him when they met again on Tuesday night.
Chapter Four
“Do you think he’s like you, Evan?” Sandy took a drag on his cigarette, fresh from his bath and huddled in his dressing gown.
“You mean an ex-miner from Derbyshire?”
“You know what I mean. Does he like blokes or women? Or maybe both? You hear all sorts of things about these arty types.”
“I’ve no idea what kind of person he likes. And what does it matter anyway?” Evan slid open Sandy’s bedroom window and wafted the cigarette smoke outside.
“It matters because you’re going to his flat tomorrow night. He might have less-than-pure intentions.” Sandy grinned. “If you’re lucky, that is.”
“Would you behave yourself? Milo is a gentleman in every way. Even if he has the same inclinations, he’d never force his attentions on me.”
“But would he have to force them on you?” Sandy stubbed out his cigarette and lay back on the bed. “Or would you welcome his advances? In other words, do you fancy him, or what?”
“Like I’d tell you if I did. You’re worse than any woman for gossip.”
“And who would I tell, exactly? I’m just curious to know if he’s the kind of man you like. He certainly caught your eye in the Rose and Crown.”
Evan sat on the bed next to Sandy and tried not to think about the night at the pub. He’d almost made a fool of himself, and he didn’t intend to make the same mistake twice.
“He looks good in a pair of glasses, that’s all. And he has nice hair, especially when it’s a bit scruffy and windswept, although it looks good slicked back as well. And as for—” Evan stopped himself before he started to think about Milo’s clothes, his voice, his paint-speckled hands. “What I think of Milo is irrelevant. Blokes like me can’t afford to be choosy, or like a particular type of man. When you’re desperate for a bit of the other, you take what you can get.”
“Very romantic.”
“Romantic it definitely isn’t. It’s not like I can find myself a boyfriend to satisfy my needs. I have to go to a dodgy pub or down the lavs in the park.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that, surely.” Sandy slipped his bare feet onto Evan’s lap, as he usually did when they talked at night. “There must be men out there who fall in love and live happily after.”
“Maybe. But if the lucky bastards do exist, I don’t know who they are.”
“Poor Evan.” Sandy sounded genuinely sympathetic. “Perhaps Milo is your Prince Charming and he’ll whisk you away to his castle in the hills.”
“You’ve been reading too many fairy tales.” Evan took Sandy’s toes between his fingers, giving his feet their customary rub. “Unfortunately, I live in the real world. Someday, I’ll marry a pleasant enough girl and forget my squalid cravings. We’ll have a couple of kids. We might buy a house if I get a better job. And we’ll be…” He tried to picture a future with a wife and family, but he couldn’t. “We’ll be fine. But for now—”
“For now, you’ll be Milo’s muse.”
“I’m nobody’s muse, you daft beggar. I’m just trying to help him win a competition.”
“Whatever you say, Evan.” Sandy closed his eyes as Evan massaged his feet. “Whatever you say.”
* * * *
When Evan arrived at Ponden Street, Milo was sitting on his front step. Wearing a paint-splashed green shirt and baggy blue trousers, he looked every inch the artist as he stood to greet Evan.
“I’m so glad you could come. I hope you didn’t hurry too much.”
“I didn’t hurry at all. Just a gentle stroll in the sunshine.”
Evan hoped his lie was convincing. Mr. Bailey had kept him working five minutes over and he’d run half the way to get here on time. Milo ushered him into the smart red-brick building and Evan gazed around him as they climbed the stairs to the first floor. He was so impressed by the spacious vestibule, with its plush red carpet and stained-glass window casting jewel-like patterns on the wall, that when Milo opened the door to his flat, Evan was a touch disappointed.
There were swish electric lights on the cream walls and oriental rugs on the polished wood floor, but the flat was a lot smaller than Evan had expected. A sky-blue chaise longue sat beneath the window, inches away from a narrow bed covered with a lilac quilt, while crammed into a corner were an easel and table cluttered with painting utensils. Two doorways suggested rooms beyond, but they may have been cupboards for much-needed storage. “It’s a lovely home you’ve got. Very snug.”
“You mean there’s scarcely room for a cat to sit, let alone be swung.” Milo pulled the easel into the cramped space in the middle of the room. “I know it’s tiny, but it is all mine. I saved every penny for years to buy this place, and I love the freedom it gives me. I can paint into the early hours and breakfast at noon if I like, and I won’t disturb a soul. Of course, most of my friends think I’m mad living here when I could be in one of my parents’ homes.”
“Homes? How many do they have?”
“Only three.” Milo picked up a brush and a tube of paint from the table. “There’s the Kensington house and the Paris apartment, and then there’s the cottage in Sussex.”
“Blimey. Your parents must have a few bob.”
“They are more fortunate than most, but their wealth is modest compared to some. Whichever view one takes, they are good people, and they brought me up to be independent and make my own way in the world. I suppose you think that odd. Most peopl
e do.”
“I don’t think it’s odd. Your parents sound very sensible to me. People don’t appreciate what they haven’t worked for. But you must get to visit them in their nice houses.”
“I do indeed. In fact, I was on my way to Edwardes Square the day I saw you in the museum. Hence the suit and the Brilliantine. Not that they care what I wear, but one does like to make an effort sometimes.” Milo smiled and ran his fingers through his fetchingly unkempt hair. “Now, we ought to get on with the portrait, if you don’t mind. The sun will be setting soon, and I’d like to make the most of the natural light.”
Milo invited Evan to sit on the chaise longue. It was an odd piece of furniture, which looked comfortable neither for sitting nor sleeping, and he propped himself in the corner between its two curved sides. Milo frowned from his easel.
“You don’t look terribly comfortable, Evan. Do you mind if I…?”
Milo put down his brush and stepped toward the chaise longue. He eased Evan’s arm across its back and moved his head to the right, tilting his chin upward. Evan attempted to memorize the angle of his face and body, in case he accidentally moved. It was hard to concentrate on such practical matters as Milo’s fingers brushed against his skin, but Evan tried his best.
Once he was happy with Evan’s pose, Milo returned to the easel to prepare his paints, squirting splodges onto a wooden palette. Evan couldn’t imagine how they would combine to convey the tone of his skin or hair, but Milo swirled his brush in the rainbow of oils and applied it to the canvas. His creative focus was intense as he swiped with the brush and smeared with his fingers, his activity interspersed with scrutiny of Evan and his picture. Evan felt like a butterfly under a lens, examined and analyzed, powerless to move, and he was thankful when Milo stood back from the easel.
“I think I’ve got the foundation done. That’s always the hard part for me. Do you mind sitting a while longer? I’d like to add some detail.”
“Go ahead.” Evan hadn’t realized how exhausting sitting still could be, and it felt good just to move his jaw. “But could I stretch my leg a bit? I think it’s gone to sleep.”
“Of course you can. Get up and walk around if you like.”
“There’s no need for that. I’ll wiggle my toes until the feeling comes back.”
“That’s the spirit.” Milo continued to paint, lightly dabbing at the canvas. “You’d make a first-class professional model if you ever get tired of shop work.”
“I wouldn’t take much persuading to leave Bailey’s, but I don’t think sitting for painters would pay Mrs. Grindley’s rent.”
“Perhaps not. But if you dislike the work so much, why did you take the job in the first place? You moved an awfully long way from Derbyshire for a job you didn’t want.”
“It’s not so bad, especially now Mr. Bailey lets me place orders and help with the books. And compared to working down the pit, selling food to folk is no bother.”
“You worked in a coal mine? I would never have thought it.”
“My father’s still there, and my brother too, but I wasn’t up to it.”
“Really? You seem a perfectly fit young man to me.”
“It wasn’t the physical work as such. It was my lungs, you see. I couldn’t cope with the coal dust. I’m the same with smoke. It gets on my chest so I can hardly breathe. Doctor Brent said if I didn’t stop mining I’d be dead before I was thirty.”
“My dear, that’s terrible. Could you not find other employment nearer to home?”
“I did. I worked in the village grocer’s for a couple of years, and I hated every minute.”
“Were you badly treated?”
“Not at all. Mr. Simpson’s a lovely man. It was him who got me the job down here, with his cousin, Mr. Bailey. He knew how unhappy I was, and he thought it would be a good opportunity for me. The truth is I was ashamed of not being able to work down the mine. No one said anything—they wouldn’t have dared in front of my father—but when the men trudged past the shop every day, I imagined they thought me pathetic, stood there in my clean shirt and tie, not man enough to join them.”
“There is no shame in physical illness. Like my eyesight, for instance, which just means I paint portraits rather than landscapes. We have to make the most of our strengths, and that’s exactly what you’ve done. You weren’t suited to one profession, so you tried another. And if you don’t enjoy shop work, you can do something else. You’re an intelligent man. You can do whatever you choose.” Milo seemed quite roused by his cause. “Tell me, Evan, what would you like to do if you could do anything at all?”
Evan had never admitted his ambition to anyone, and it took him a moment to pluck up the courage.
“As it happens, I’ve always fancied being a gardener. Working in a park or a big country house, deciding what plants go where. I used to help my gran on her allotment. It was only potatoes and carrots and such, but I loved to feel the soil under my feet and fingernails. I’d go to the Pavilion Gardens in Buxton too, to see the flower displays. I’d love to work in a place like that, or somewhere like Chatsworth, with all that space and fresh air. That’s my dream, but I know it’ll never happen.”
“Don’t be so defeatist, Evan. You should sign up for a college class. It would be a start. You should never lose sight of your dreams, Evan. Never.”
“I-I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m sorry. I do get carried away sometimes. I’ve been so lucky that my parents supported me in my ambitions—and in every part of my life. They could have insisted I study law or go into politics, but they allowed me to go to art school instead of Oxford. I hate to see other people’s dreams trampled upon.”
Evan was taken aback by such enthusiasm, and it seemed to put Milo off his artistic stride too. He returned his palette and brush to the table. “I think that’s enough for today. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Are you ready for something to eat?”
“You don’t have to, you know. I can sneak something from the kitchen when I get home.”
“Nonsense. You’ve been good enough to give up your time for me. The least I can do is give you a meal.” Milo crossed to one of the inner doors, which apparently led to a kitchen. “It won’t be anything fancy, I’m afraid. Just a sandwich. Will that be all right?”
“It sounds grand. It’ll be better than whatever Mrs. Grindley’s serving up anyway.”
Milo disappeared into the kitchen, and Evan took the opportunity to stand and get the blood flowing in his legs. He wandered over to the easel and took a peek at his portrait, which was very much an unfinished work. There were streaks of paint daubed all over the canvas, and while the shape in the middle might roughly be described as a face, it didn’t resemble Evan yet. At least he hoped it didn’t. Evan moved away when he heard Milo’s footsteps.
“Don’t fret, Evan. It will look like you when it’s done, I promise.” Milo placed two plates on the table and moved his paints and brushes onto one of the three stools tucked underneath. “Come and sit down while I fetch our drinks.”
Evan sat down to his plate, on which were tastefully arranged a sandwich filled with slices of ham, several wedges of tomato and a spoonful of piccalilli. Milo soon returned with two glasses of beer, and as they tucked into their meal Milo asked about his family. Evan told him about his father and his brother, Alfred, who both worked hard and drank even harder, like most of the miners in the village. Then he told Milo about his mother, who worked as hard as the men, taking in washing as well as looking after the family home. Her fingers were red raw from scrubbing other people’s clothes, and Evan hoped to save enough money to buy her some sweet-smelling hand cream as a birthday gift.
His mother had never wanted him to follow his father down the pit, and she had been almost glad when his fragile lungs had proved inadequate for the job. She’d been so proud when he’d moved to London, and she wrote to Evan every week, letting him know all the local news and how much she missed him.
Milo had so far liste
ned quietly to his reminiscences, but now, he asked, “Is there no one you miss from home, Evan? There’s not a girl who’s waiting for you?”
“No, there’s no girl. Never has been.” Evan considered his words carefully before he asked, “Do you have a girl, Milo?”
Milo’s answer was equally cautious. “I’ve never had a girl either. I…I rather prefer the company of men.”
Evan’s body tingled with excitement, and he eagerly responded, “So do I.”
“It looks like we have something in common, then.” Milo was clearly relieved by Evan’s admission. “Do you have a man who is special to you at the moment?”
“No. A quick one in the gents’ is as much as I get, but it’s better than nothing.”
“I can’t say I’ve fared much better in recent years. I’ve had a few brief affairs, but they never amounted to anything more than the purely physical.”
“That’s a shame. I know we haven’t known each other long, and I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, but you seem to me the sort of person who should be in love. I think it would make you very happy.”
“What a lovely thing to say.” Milo seemed touched by Evan’s bold words, and he took a sip from his glass of beer. “Do your parents know about your preference?”
“Bloody hell, no. Mother would be broken-hearted, and Father would never speak to me again. Why? Do your parents know?”
“They do.”
“And they don’t mind?”
“As I’ve said before, I am very lucky. While neither of my parents are artists, they move in artistic and literary circles. They are acquainted with many men—and women—like us. They would not be shocked or upset by anything I might do. I only wish it were the same for you.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Evan shuddered at the thought of informing his parents of his illicit activities. “I’m happier with them not knowing.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Milo smiled thoughtfully. “Would you like another drink?”
Strokes on a Canvas Page 3