by Maggie Humm
The volume of noise stunned her, and she inched forward, pressing the palm of her hand to the walls of buildings, realising she didn’t have a shadow behind or in front. In consternation, she stood for a moment focusing on the best way to the hostel, unable to think, with the sounds of collapsing buildings on the other side of the river reaching her in reverberating waves. Another memory of Louis pounding away on his piano surfaced in her mind, and all she wanted now was to remember the image of him, playing and smiling across at her in his studio. In spite of the years and the lack of letters, she felt a kind of love, a need to be with him. The thuds and explosions were deafening. At last the hostel’s porch was ahead. As the door banged fast behind her, she stood breathless with her back against it, the pounding of the Quick-Fire guns shrunk to a rumbling hum, and waited for the Boy Scout bugles to blow the all clear. All she could cling onto was the odd idea the worst must be already happening, and she needed more than anything else to see Louis again.
1918
ON SUNDAY THEY WERE LUCKY TO FIND TWO SEATS together in the crowded bus. That week Eliza had seen advertised an exhibition of art by the Commonwealth of Australia at the Academy with Queen Alexandra an honorary patron. Surprised by the word “Australia,” Lily had heard Louis’s warm southern accent in her mind, and the thought she might see him again at the exhibition at last became the most interesting idea she’d had all week.
“I’d love to go as soon as we’re free,” she’d said, trying to breathe evenly in case Eliza laughed at her eagerness. “We might see Mr. Grier’s latest work.”
“The coincidence of the founder of our hospital and Australian art must be a sign,” Eliza said, smiling at her. “Let’s go on Sunday.”
Sleep had deserted her on Saturday night, her mind full of thoughts about Louis. At breakfast she’d eaten the porridge without tasting the honey on the surface until she noticed the sweetness on her lips. She felt isolated from the bus chatter, not wanting to say much at all. Every so often, too occasional and haphazard to list, there would be moments when St Ives popped into her head wherever she was. The pictures rarely changed, although she often extended one scene into another; the important thing was not to lose any. The possibility of seeing Louis was making the day unexpectedly full of memories. For an hour she’d seen fragments, flashes of odd scenes, and St Ives was here now in the omnibus. Far away in time yet somehow amidst the passengers was the group of students clustered around their easels, painting together on the quayside, with Louis instructing her and standing close. She had loved this man for half her life and yet she didn’t know much about him, even if he’d ever cared for her, but she could almost smell his cologne as she glanced around. The little bulbs in the roof of the carriage resembled fairy lights shining down. There were no military men on the bus, no colonial regalia. Perhaps they’d be the only women at the exhibition, but their nurses’ uniforms shielded them from any embarrassing stares.
If she stayed long enough in the gallery, the place every London artist visited several times a year, Louis would come. She was going to stand close and look in his eyes. But what would she say if Louis should appear? What would she talk about? There was so much to tell him: a dramatic story about trying to save The Rokeby Venus, or perhaps an amusing account of the writers in the Tour Eiffel, or a hospital tale not too gory, but most of all she wanted to reassure him she was definitely going to be a professional artist. Lily wiped condensation from a window and gazed out at Haymarket with its fine buildings in an unbroken line leading towards Piccadilly. Sandbags reached halfway up the offices. Their upper windows, with people working inside without lamps, looked flat and blank as if covered with identically matched squares of grey, and she remembered the studio’s solid stone wall in St Ives with its firm shapes, totally at odds with these sodden, gaping sandbags. What had triggered all these memories of St Ives? Was it a way to block out the war, or the sight of sandbags, or was it Father talking about marriage? She wasn’t sure. She wanted to see Louis once more, to make him look at her, to see his face and make him smile.
It felt like she’d been sitting on the bus for hours in the heavy traffic, getting hotter and hotter, but the regular tapping of the bus wheels on the road’s surface had an exciting rhythm, as if they were on a fairground ride. In the morning there’d been a mist over the Thames, but at least the water was smooth. Every morning she loved to stand for a moment watching the ripples spreading out in wide circles from passing boats. The rush of the final wave against the edge of the Embankment’s wall was always surprisingly aggressive. Edges give shape. Once you’ve painted the lines of force, a painting is so much stronger. An image of St Ives’s cliffs battered by a powerful sea was right before her whenever she stared at the waves, but if she could be alone to dream—not surrounded by other nurses running into the hospital. Above the Embankment, seagulls, oblivious, wheeled overhead as if it weren’t wartime. Listening to their caws, she’d imagined a special bird spirit always with her, one which had flown from St Ives. What would Mrs. Beckwith think of her if she heard such fanciful notions? It was Eliza who had the extravagant thoughts, was the excitable one, but the bird spirit had worked last year during the extensive air raids, and anything to get her through the war was worth believing in.
The bus was stifling. It was early summer now, and her nurse’s uniform, combined with the cape, cap and gloves, added to the heat. How long would she be wearing it? Surely the war couldn’t last another summer? Hadn’t the billboards carried headlines about German withdrawals to the Hindenburg line and the deadly Western Front? Eliza was loosening her cape as if she’d had the same thought, glancing across at Lily.
“I already felt totally agnostic about the value of war,” Lily said, “even before hostilities began.”
“I agree—sometimes I hate these uniforms,” Eliza said. “I could ask Mother to relinquish some of her hundreds of dresses and cut a couple down to size for both of us to wear on our free evenings.”
“You’re very kind,” Lily replied, “but we’ve worn the outfits every day for three years. I would feel odd taking them off, and I’m not sure I can remember how to dress in civvies. It won’t matter in the Royal Academy. I hope there aren’t too many war pictures. All I can do these days is try to believe art will triumph over death.”
“Well, that sounds very philosophical,” Eliza said, pulling the bell cord. “I’d love it to be true—almost there.”
Piccadilly was helter-skelter with hansom cabs crisscrossing omnibus routes and pedestrians scurrying between. In the middle of each intersection constables stretched out their scarecrow arms enclosed in reflective white sheaths, but the traffic paid little heed. The two women stood waiting to cross, skirting the unrepaired hole left by the bomb. The sky above was radiant, and, as Lily stared at the few streaks of clouds, it appeared as if she could put her hand out to touch them with the bright sun warming her face. An organ playing in St James’s took her back to her mother playing the piano. The war was suspended for a moment. The music did its work. They were entirely free for a whole day, the strain of working long hours in the hospital slipping from her shoulders. The crowds seemed transformed by the good weather into cheerful couples, their conversations floating on the Sunday air, the solidarity of sharing the war making people genial to one another.
Passing Fortnum & Mason, Lily glanced at the contents of the thick plate-glass windows. Shop windows were like paintings, arrested in time, and she usually enjoyed them, but today Fortnum’s array broke into her cheerfulness. Arranged in awkward little groups were military uniforms, swagger sticks, flags, and advertisements for special hampers designed for the troops. The model soldiers were like a set of happy families her mother had given her for the doll’s house. She’d struggled, as a child, to arrange the figures, but it was the control she’d relished—being able to assemble families in any order, the power over miniature adults. Perhaps governments fought wars with the same urge to control, pushing people around with giant fingers. The
two women peered into the window, reading the list of items in the “June” hamper to be sent to the front line. Why would there be lemon squash tablets since clean water was presumably in short supply?
“It’s too depressing,” Lily said. “Let’s get on.”
Turning away to cross over to the Academy, she removed her cap, running her fingers through her hair, and straightened her jacket, trying to look presentable in case Louis appeared. She remembered his hair flattened after he’d removed his hat in the studio, spinning it to reach the hooks. The tears in her eyes were stinging, and she looked around. The courtyard in front of the entrance was transformed, with files of uniformed men walking in and out as if the Academy were an army depot or a recruiting station, the high buildings and lack of sun in the outdoor quadrangle turning the air chilly. They pressed in together silently with Lily gazing less at the pictures and more at the spectators, trying to see if Louis was in the throng. Without a catalogue, it was difficult to know how to move around the exhibition.
“Perhaps we should ask a keeper where the Australian paintings are hung,” Lily said, trying to keep her voice light. “There are too many military paintings to see in one afternoon, and they’re so depressing. Let’s go straight to the Australians.”
“Don’t be too disappointed, Lily,” Eliza said, “if Mr. Grier hasn’t submitted.”
“I do want to see his work, of course,” Lily said, as nonchalantly as she could manage, “but I’m as excited by the number of women painters.”
It wasn’t true. She’d thought of nothing but St Ives and Louis all morning, planning to take off her glasses and pinch her cheeks pink as soon as he appeared; she began reading the annotated cards alongside the paintings, hunting for his name.
“Here’s one by Olsson,” she said, “but this is of Brighton Pier. Surely he couldn’t prefer Brighton to St Ives?”
“Well, it does seem an act of betrayal,” Eliza replied. “Our special place, renounced.”
“At least he’s not exhibiting a war painting,” Lily said, “and I’m glad he still loves golden skies.”
For a moment she was standing again at the open window of Porthmeor Studios watching the sunset, wondering, as she always did, why people spoke about suns setting when the sun appeared not to move at all, merely to have slices of colour cut from its base as the evening advanced, leaving a thin curved red arc on the horizon before complete darkness.
“Look,” Eliza said, “the sign ahead says there are no artists attending today in the galleries.”
Lily held back her disappointment, keeping her voice flat. “And there are definitely no paintings here by Mr. Grier,” she said, her face falling. “We’ve walked the entire length of all the galleries. We need a treat. Shall we rise to a sticky bun with tea?”
She had to forget Louis; he was part of the past. Could she ever settle her whole being into the kind of banal comfort marriages seemed to bring? In her mind she knew she’d learned as much as he could teach her, and so much more in the past few years, but there remained a space somewhere inside he could fill. She could remember all of his features as though she’d been seeing them every day, and she’d never forget. Or would the future be a life where she was truly independent, a successful artist with, if she wanted, every day including a visit to a gallery and a café without any thought of expense? Tensing, she glanced down at her thin purse. A nurse’s salary was scarcely twenty pounds a year—her sole income. If all her wishes were legal tender, there’d be enough coins of the realm for a year or more.
“Oh, bother!” she said. “Let’s have a huge slice of cake!”
“Did you enjoy the exhibition, Lily,” Mrs. Beckwith asked, “your visit to the Academy?”
“Not as much as we’d hoped,” Lily answered, before falling silent. Had she ever mentioned Louis to Mrs. Beckwith? Somehow the overpowering whiffs of carbolic swept away memories of turpentine and his studio, but she’d start painting and the memories would return. She tucked her hair more firmly into her cap, trying not to look too pleased Mrs. Beckwith used her first name now.
Mrs. Beckwith opened the old, locked corner cabinet, which Lily hadn’t included in her morning checklist, and took out two bottles with badly stained labels, holding them up to the light, measuring the levels of liquid with her fingers, and handed them to Lily.
“Could you replace these damaged labels with your elegantly written stickers?” she asked. “You may be wondering why we hardly ever use these medicines yet keep them in the pharmacy?”
The requests for emetics were certainly fewer in number. Perhaps the patients were becoming healthier. Although lodged in its basement, she sometimes felt like a detective investigating the hospital, taking the incoming requests to be grand clues to the general health of the Queen Alexandra.
“Well, yes, if they aren’t often prescribed, why are they here?” Lily asked, staring at the skull and crossbones and carefully lifting the dingy paper free by moving her fingernail around the edge. An acrid scent took her back for a moment to Mrs. Ramsay’s bedroom, but the pharmacy was full of unpleasant smells. It was impossible to distinguish.
“We have these old remedies in case we run out of more recent medicines,” Mrs. Beckwith said, “and patients are sometimes reassured by the sight of something they might have been given when younger.”
Sensing one of Mrs. Beckwith’s little lectures and glad to share her expertise, Lily picked up her notebook.
“You find Fowler’s solution, nux vomica, and belladonna tucked away in medicine cabinets,” Mrs. Beckwith said. “I often peep inside bathroom cupboards when I visit friends’ homes—purely to give advice, you understand.”
Smiling, she looked judiciously around the pharmacy, although the two women were always alone together all day.
“You see, these medicines contain poisons,” she murmured. “Twenty years ago, it was thought they were invigorating!”
“Pity the poor patients whose doctors prescribed them,” Lily replied, although she wasn’t sure of the medicines’ effects. Mrs. Beckwith’s endless bits of information were enlarging her world, but for an instant Lily thought of something else, something she’d been mulling over for a while. She’d not allowed herself to think too much about it but had wanted to say it since becoming friends with Mrs. Beckwith.
“I’d love to introduce you to my dear friend Mrs. Ramsay,” she said. “We met in St Ives, where she has a holiday home every summer. You both have such a special ability to make everyone feel at ease.”
It seemed a momentous thought to Lily, but there was a kind of inevitability about the idea. She wanted the special pleasure of watching one person she admired begin to value another person she loved. “When I remember St Ives,” she continued, “it always seems to be sunny with a heat haze over Mrs. Ramsay’s flower garden.” She quickly smiled at her companion.
“Lovely! I’ve never been to St Ives, but I’ve heard it’s very quaint and attractive,” Mrs. Beckwith said, nodding as she returned to her dispensing with her usual graceful movements.
All at once, with an almost bodily sensation, Lily understood the source of her interest in Mrs. Beckwith, the reason why she’d been unable to stop talking with her and wanting to know about her life. It was the way Mrs. Beckwith put her head on one side to listen so intently which made Lily think sometimes she was watching Mrs. Ramsay, remembering Mrs. Ramsay listening to her own stories about Mother, concentrating equally hard while covering furniture with elegant pieces of cloth in a rented seaside house. Whatever it was, she felt a strange sense of things falling into place, as if the world was settling. It was wishful thinking no doubt, but Mrs. Beckwith and Mrs. Ramsay might become friends, and she’d paint something good, become someone she could admire herself. Mrs. Beckwith stood up, extinguishing her desk lamp.
“We have both worked hard today,” she said. “Why not escape to your upstairs room and enjoy an hour or so of painting?”
Lily tidied her papers, eager for a sight of the outsi
de world from an attic window. The evening was darkening, with no strong north light at this hour, but the moon might already be shining a white gleam on the river. She smiled to herself, remembering how scornful she’d been about Whistler’s nocturnes as a student. Now any striking image helped her forget war for a moment. People might ask what possible importance could art have in a world of Zeppelins and Gotha bombers, but it mattered, it did matter.
Before a matron could appear, Lily tiptoed up the stairs, holding tight to the mahogany banister to support her tired back, thinking, when she closed the door, she’d never have to see the day again. A glow from the lamp fell onto her easel and paints, and the whiff of oils was comforting after the clean pharmacy desks and endless carbolic. Smelling turpentine always lifted her spirits, and she’d missed the way the hours took on a slower rhythm whenever she worked with oils, loving their deliberate, unhurried spreading over a canvas. Pulling down a blind before a warden’s whistle could sound, she blew out the lamp to peer safely from behind. The church spire on the opposite bank of the river was solid black against the paler grey-black of the sky. London’s blackout made more stars visible, and she spotted the North Star as well as the Plough close by