Talland House

by Maggie Humm

  “You did the right thing,” Eliza replied. “I told you last year you were wasting time in the atelier. So many paintings slashed everywhere in England, even here in the Royal Academy and the National Portrait Gallery. Galleries are flooded with special policemen—they’ll soon be too scared to admit women at all.”

  “I know,” Lily said. “But these women are right about their politics. They’re modern and brave, and we deserve to have the vote. It’s easy for wealthy men to dismiss them.”

  Seeing Eliza’s frown, Lily wished she hadn’t spoken so directly and took Eliza’s hand.

  “She was a little younger than me, I think,” she said, “with steady brown eyes.”

  “You could pass for a police court typist,” Eliza quipped, “if you don’t sell any paintings or manage to exhibit. I might even join you.”

  Lily took a long puff of her cigarette. Her paintings hadn’t sold well last year, and she’d failed again to have one accepted for the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.

  “But I suppose it’s to be expected,” she said, shrugging. “My style is very different from what they usually want—and I refuse to compromise.”

  “We’re part of the modern tide, of course,” Eliza said, giving Lily a broad smile. “We’re too experimental for London. That’s our problem.”

  Lily relaxed, stretching out her legs.

  “Let’s have some tea,” Eliza said. “I’ll toast crumpets at the range.”

  Eliza’s elegant ringed hands, the cheery coals, the soft light from the oil lamps in the centre of the table all merged in a haze, and Lily drifted back, thinking about Louis and Hilary. How handsome they both were, Tom too. Should she tell Eliza she’d written to Louis and Hilary, and also Mrs. Ramsay? She’d worded each letter with care, not stressing the gap in time. No. She’d wait until she had replies. She threw her stub in the grate and glanced through the window. The bright evening sky hinted at a hot summer ahead, although it was March.

  “We must take a painting trip together soon,” Eliza suggested, handing Lily a buttered crumpet. “Who knows what the rest of the year might bring. Paperboys in Trafalgar Square keep shouting about the Navy’s new warships. The billboards print ‘army’ and ‘war’ in capital letters nowadays.”

  Lily sucked up the last drops of butter and smiled. “What would I do without you planning my life for me?”

  A few days later, the two women took an early morning train from Finchley Road to Pinner, a village not too far to the northwest from London and perfect for a day’s painting. The air was cooler here than in the city centre. As they walked through the hamlet, Lily drank in the scenery, comparing one view with another, captivated with the softer light and the dappled glow from trees patterning her dress into diamonds and circles. Their conversation fell away with the sight ahead of a cottage next to a smithy and a man fitting horseshoes, gripping a hoof between his thighs. Lily was much less entranced by the scene than Eliza seemed to be from the beam on her face, but at least the shape of the bent man’s body from the back was intriguing. Lily stood to one side while Eliza negotiated with the blacksmith. They had to be careful not to inconvenience people while they sketched, and Eliza was so much better at talking to strangers.

  Setting up an easel on the quayside in St Ives had been easy. The world had seemed to slow down for as long as she painted, but London was different—all those rules of acceptable feminine behaviour. Luckily Eliza always managed to find a secluded garden for outdoor painting. They’d never been bothered by men’s stares. Sighing, Lily turned to find Eliza and the blacksmith shaking hands in agreement.

  They became lost in the hard work of looking, and a companionable silence settled between them. At lunchtime the cottage woman, a bundle of aprons and long skirts, with bare, brown arms, stared quizzically at each canvas as she brought out a tray holding glasses of cold milk and bread and butter with cheese.

  “Thank you,” Eliza said, putting down her brush and turning to Lily. “Is your work going well in your studio?”

  “It’s difficult to paint steadily with the unfinished portrait there,” Lily said, and replaced her glass carefully on the tray, swallowing a piece of bread. She was tired by the strain of constantly focusing, and it was becoming hard to think clearly, but she had to ask the question she’d been mulling over all morning.

  “I sent a gallery invitation to Louis, and I was careful to leave my visiting card with a letter of introduction at Hilary’s home in case the family kept to Victorian customs,” Lily said in a low voice, trying not to sound too emotional, “and I wrote a letter, a long letter, to Mrs. Ramsay. I didn’t mention my suffragette work because I wasn’t sure she’d approve, just about the few galleries where I’d exhibited, and I did say how much I missed seeing her and Talland House, but I’ve received no reply. Do you think she hates my portrait?” She stared at Eliza, hoping desperately she’d say no.

  “Louis is in Australia and Hilary in some colony somewhere, and the family probably demands Mrs. Ramsay’s full attention,” Eliza replied, glancing at Lily’s downcast face. “She has so many children to watch over, as well as that husband of hers.”

  “I look every day at the painting,” Lily replied, taking a deep breath.

  “Her silence may be nothing to do with the portrait,” Eliza said, her voice softening. “It’s Mr. Ramsay to blame, I’m sure. It’s to do with the disparity between your father’s income, as a retired solicitor, and his. He does have a large house in Hyde Park Gate. He’s probably instructed his wife not to befriend you, but I’m sure we’ll hear directly from the dear lady soon.”

  The blacksmith’s hammer rang out, and Lily rubbed her neck, feeling her taut muscles, reassured by the thought Eliza might be right.

  “Remember having tea with Mrs. Ramsay in her garden, the sunlight on the flowers as it shines today?” Eliza asked, pushing her loose hair back into its roll.

  In an instant Lily was back in St Ives, watching Mrs. Ramsay surrounded by white clematis. It was late summer in her memory, and Talland House always stood in a blaze of sunlight under radiant skies when the sea mists thinned each day. Lily smiled at Eliza, glad to share the recollection, the midday heat making her shoulders feel less rigid now with the sun playing on her back, warm and mellow.

  “There’s some good news,” Lily said. “I’ve heard restoration is underway on The Rokeby Venus, and no visible marks should remain on the canvas.”

  “But we suffer the marks!” Eliza said, her voice rising. “The valuable paintings are already hung high out of reach, and difficult to see.” She brushed a black line fiercely down her canvas. “The Times says from next week, the British Museum will admit women only if accompanied by a man to vouch for our good character. How will we go on copying the Greek statues?”

  “Then we’ll need a man,” Lily replied, smiling. “Father would hate to come, although the entrance fee is well within his means, but you never lack for suitors among your mother’s circle. You could find a man for us, Eliza, I’m sure.” Lily laughed, amused by a picture of the two of them immersed in their drawing, sitting alongside two bored young men about town, or worse, close to the decadent roués who visited Marie’s studio.

  “At last, men are good for something.” Eliza tapped her brush free of paint on her palette. “But who should I ask?”

  Lily remembered Mr. Bankes talking eloquently about his painting, his cherry trees in bloom, and how much he loved describing his European art tours.

  “Do you remember Mr. Bankes in St Ives?’ she asked. “We exchanged cards before leaving our lodgings and kept in touch with Christmas cards. I could ask him to join us for a little sightseeing at the British Museum.”

  Eliza nodded vigorously. “An elderly man is what we need!”

  “And he was always so discreet,” Lily said, “never interrupting my thoughts, my work.”

  Mr. Bankes would certainly have information about the Ramsays. She hugged the idea close to herself.

  The discus thrower
was tense, with a muscular arm bent at the elbow. All the statues in the Greek gallery were caught in the middle of dramatic physical action. The white marble was veined with thin red lines, as if the pressure to curve their arms and throw a weapon brought blood to the surface. Frozen in time, they went on exerting themselves, their sandaled feet fixed forever to a plinth.

  Mr. Bankes sat between Eliza and Lily, watching both sketch. His agreeing to escort two women for a whole morning’s drawing in the British Museum was a gracious gesture, especially since he’d said he’d been surprised by the invitation. In St Ives he seemed to approach each day from years far back, but he was interested in the arts, he’d told Lily, and kept notes about art objects in the back of his Baedekers above the piano in his drawing room. Avenues of identical dull suburban villas had floated in front of her then, but now, waiting under the museum’s grand classical portico, as she’d watched him walk towards them, more slow-footed, she felt tenderhearted for his increasing fragility. His shoulders were bowed, but his face was still rosy-cheeked.

  “I admire the way in which you young women have won the freedom to paint and stayed true to your vocation away from home and hearth,” he’d told them when they’d entered the building. Finding his Victorian vocabulary endearing, Lily had taken his arm. As Eliza strode ahead, Mr. Bankes had revealed his concerns about the threat of war, the June assassination of Franz Ferdinand, Germany declaring war on Russia (“But we mustn’t let it spoil our day,” he’d said), and, pensive, she’d nodded. The Balkans were far away. After signing the day’s record sheet, they had their bags and muffs checked for concealed weapons.

  “Even artists’ satchels are forbidden objects,” Eliza said. “They have to be ticketed in the cloakroom.”

  It was a relief to be with an elderly man who wouldn’t have any untoward feelings about young women, and it was impossible anyway to talk much in the long chilly gallery, where their breath hung misty in the air in spite of the sunshine outside. At the beginning as they worked, Lily felt like an actor in a West End play about women with a male protector, flourishing with his assistance. She bit her lip and focused on the elbow, feeling her chalk sticks as smooth as the marble. The sketch slowly began to take shape, as if she had an image tucked somewhere inside herself like a cameo, a portrait of her mother. She stroked the edge of a stick on the paper and smudged the line with her finger, and a shadow grew to balance the figure, finally giving it a solid depth. As she filled each area, it was her mother she was slowly sketching, Mother she was fixing into a sort of pattern, Mother she was bringing alive. Somehow, her mother had been there as she’d closely concentrated on the statue, and Lily paused for a moment, leaning over the sketch.

  The gallery air was cool on her face, but inside she felt warm and tingling, as if she’d run right around the room. She glanced at Mr. Bankes, taking in his smart waistcoat, and tilted her head back, relaxing. “The surroundings have cast a spell over us all,” she said. “It’s good to be sketching here with you, Mr. Bankes.”

  “And we’re so grateful for your support,” Eliza quickly agreed.

  When the chill in the exhibition became too intense, they stepped outside into a sunny day. In Museum Street they walked abreast to a brightly painted little café, a decent place, yet cheap, welcoming to students from the British Museum Reading Room, the usual mixed Bloomsbury crowd. Mr. Bankes helped them to hang their coats on their chairs, settling each woman at the table before he sat down himself. Lily nodded thanks, pleased with his old-fashioned courtesy, as a young waitress bustled between the tables bringing their soup, tea, and rolls.

  Stirring her broth, she glanced at Mr. Bankes. How to ask about Mrs. Ramsay? It was something she’d wanted to do since she’d invited him, but now, which was the right time, she felt nervous, and she couldn’t choose which words would best describe her feelings, the sense of loss, almost as when her mother had died, as much as not completing a portrait. They were sitting close together, so it should be easier to speak openly. She sat more erect, her hands on the tabletop for support, and started talking too fast.

  “Do you know if Mrs. Ramsay is well? I do hope she is. Have you heard from her? Any news about the family?”

  He seemed surprised by the sudden flow of words.

  “No, sadly, I’ve had no information or a letter from Mrs. Ramsay,” Mr. Bankes said, “and she was such an assiduous letter writer, was she not? Every morning in St Ives she devoted so much time to writing messages to all her friends and family.”

  Lily was uncertain what to reply and put her hands back in her lap, feeling empty, but at least she wasn’t alone.

  Mr. Bankes raised his teacup towards her and gave a half-smile. “To Mrs. Ramsay,” he murmured.

  She touched his cup with hers.

  “I’ve learned a little about younger women,” he continued, as if eager to talk. “In the past five years since we met in 1909, I’ve come over to the distaff side.” He examined both ladies in turn. “You’re all so much in the news, you emancipated women, it’s impossible not to see the world changing, and changing for the better. So much better than reading about Serbia every day.”

  Eliza and Lily smiled at each other.

  “We’re delighted, Mr. Bankes,” Eliza said with feeling, “happy you wanted to give up your time to help two women artists.”

  Lily cut into the roll and, finishing her soup, watched Mr. Bankes and Eliza at the other side of the table, gliding into conversation. The room was stuffy, full of diners, with the sun streaming through the windows, and she wiped her forehead. It would be a hot summer this year, “a heat wave,” the papers predicted, along with fears about war. She half listened to their chitchat as Mr. Bankes described an outing with his wife to Hampton Court. When he asked the waitress for the bill, she quickly glanced at Eliza.

  “We’ll pay for ourselves?” Lily whispered, and Eliza nodded.

  “Women’s rights, I believe,” Mr. Bankes said with a little smile.

  “We can all meet again more easily,” Lily explained, laughing, “to share your companionship without feeling too obliged. I’m sure you understand? And I’d love to visit Hampton Court again. I was too young to appreciate it when my mother took me. All I wanted to do was to run to the centre of the maze as fast as possible!”

  “Oh, I’ve been there far too often,” Eliza said, shaking her head.

  “Then I should be delighted to accompany you, Miss Briscoe,” Mr. Bankes said, glancing in a window and smoothing down his hair.

  The next week Lily and Mr. Bankes climbed up Station Road from the tram stop through the spacious green separating Hampton Court and the riverside from the village.

  “It’s the anniversary of my first trip to the palace with my wife, Alice,” Mr. Bankes said, “the very day.” He seemed troubled and paused, giving her a long look. “May I share a little of my past with you, Miss Briscoe? Somehow I feel you would understand.”

  “I’d be very interested to hear more about you and your wife,” Lily said.

  Father never talked about his feelings after her mother’s death. She wished he had.

  “The first time I saw Alice, I knew I would marry her,” Mr. Bankes said. “She shared my scientific interests. Our botanizing excursions made our life together dignified and meaningful.” His voice grew stronger. “Her careful handwritten labels, which I asked her to prepare for my specimen bottles, were a triumph of clarity.”

  Lost in his memories, he took a moment before glancing at her again.

  “Of course, compared with Mrs. Ramsay’s beauty, Alice might have seemed a little plain,” he continued, “but not to me. She was so instinctively aware of my needs, of the pattern of my days. We appreciated our ordered life.”

  “You must miss her a great deal, Mr. Bankes,” Lily said, remembering Father’s daily habit of standing for a minute too long in the hall, as if her mother were there to kiss him goodbye.

  “We understood each other without any need for exaggerated gestures.”
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br />   “You’ll appreciate Hampton Court all the more then,” Lily said, “thinking about your wife.”

  The future was in abeyance for a day. The world of politicians and war was pushed into the distance, and the building’s symmetrical chimneys and cupolas held the power of beauty, not politics.

  “I approve of the fact no monarch has lived in the palace since George II,” she said, trying to divert Mr. Bankes. “Royalty holds no attraction for me.”

  “I agree,” he replied. “The Kaiser is causing us all to be afraid of rulers.”

  “It’s the river which really entrances me,” she said. “Imagine arriving in a golden barge rowed down from the Tower.” She liked to think of scenes from history. It helped her sometimes to feel outside of the present and beyond its pressures.

  “You may think me unromantic with my scientific interest in the astronomical clock, but it’s a remarkably early specimen,” he said, pointing at the façade. “It shows the time of high water at London Bridge. You would need to know that if you were returning by barge to the Tower, Miss Briscoe.”

  Delighted he seemed to be trying to share her fanciful idea, she felt she could chat with him about anything; she would offer up the gardens, the flowers, the vegetables, even the herbs to his careful inspection and expertise, and listen fully absorbed. His eyes glowed when he described the great vine. “It’s almost one hundred and fifty years old,” he said.

  They were walking around the south of the Palace when the beauty of the herbaceous borders brought her to a stop. The flowers stood motionless in the sunlight, disturbed merely by humming bees.

  “The sight of those dahlias takes me back to Mrs. Ramsay’s gardening,” Mr. Bankes said, “and Talland House far away.”

  She glanced at him. He’d consoled her the other day by saying he, too, hadn’t received a letter from Mrs. Ramsay, but she needed to know more. Had he any further information—especially about the portrait? She had to ask now. Evening was coming, and this might be the one moment.