He stood staring at her for a long time. At one moment he was aware of people approaching at his shoulder, and then abruptly changing direction when they realised it was him, the lecturing lunatic. It suddenly became clear to him that he must have this painting, at any cost. He had looked in the catalogue but found no reference to it, so he retraced his steps downstairs and consulted one of the gallery assistants, a young bespectacled fellow who knew immediately the picture Will meant.
‘Yes, it’s ex-catalogue, first shown at the Beaufort Gallery, in 1912,’ he said. ‘And I’m afraid it’s not for sale.’
Will felt this like a punch to his stomach. ‘Why not?’
The assistant spread his hands philosophically. ‘Er … because the artist doesn’t wish to sell it.’
‘May I ask him … personally?’
‘You could try. But he’s not here at the moment.’
Will nodded his thanks, and wandered back out onto the street. He did not give serious credence to the idea that it was ‘not for sale.’ He recalled the painter as a shabby bohemian sort who probably struggled to pay his laundry bills: he could hardly refuse to sell once the price was adjusted to his liking. Footsore after his tramp from the City, Will stopped at Brown’s Hotel a few doors along; in the bar he found a table, and ordered a large Scotch. He asked for writing paper, and began composing a letter to Brigstock, enquiring as to whether he might be persuaded to sell him the painting. Should he mention that they had once met, through Connie herself? No; he remembered again his faux pas on the occasion. He ordered another drink, and made several attempts at redrafting the letter. He couldn’t quite get the tone of it right; it seemed too pleading, and then too offhand. He wrote another, but reading it back found himself excruciated by certain phrases, including his claim to be ‘a man of means’. Strike that … The drinks which kept coming to his table eventually got the better of his penmanship. When a waiter came over to ask whether he should remove the discarded drafts, Will nodded blearily, and glanced at his watch. Quarter to six. He had been brooding and failing to write a letter there for almost two hours.
Having paid his bill, he rose waveringly to his feet and made his way out onto the street, closely followed by the waiter who had served him.
‘Excuse me, sir, I think you left this.’ He handed Will the parcel from Lewin & Co. he had left at his table.
‘Thanks. Sorry,’ he replied, taking the bag. He searched in his pocket to give him a tip, but the man, with a discreet look of pity, held up his hand, and then went back through the revolving doors. Will stood on the pavement, undecided for a moment, before directing his steps back to the gallery. He thought he should have another try at persuading them. Visitors had thinned out since mid-afternoon, though his arrival was noted by the assistant to whom he had spoken earlier.
‘Back again, sir?’ he said, leaning away slightly as he smelt Will’s breath.
‘Yes. May I speak to your manager?’
The man eyed him uncertainly, then said, ‘He’s just over there, if you’ll wait a moment.’ Will watched him go to consult with an older, frock-coated gent who, after some whispers and surreptitious looks in his direction, sauntered over.
‘William Greaves, sir,’ he said, extending his hand.
‘William Maitland,’ Will replied, in an echo which sounded comically like a correction. He began to explain his purpose, falling back on phrases he had lately used in those aborted letters, though he must have started rambling because Mr Greaves interrupted him with a polite stilling gesture of his hand.
‘I believe my colleague has already noted your request, sir. Unfortunately that particular painting is not for sale.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Will. ‘This is a place of business. The painting hangs on your wall. How can it not be for sale?’ Before the man could reply, Will had walked past him and was heading for the mezzanine floor where Connie’s portrait was displayed. Greaves and his assistant followed reluctantly in his wake. As he bounded up the stairs he felt the afternoon’s drinking begin to make his head swim. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. He had gained the upstairs room and was heading directly for the painting when his two pursuers stepped smartly in front of him, blocking his way. He tried to dodge past, but the manager pushed him firmly away.
‘How dare you raise your hands to me,’ said Will, suddenly furious.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I must ask you to leave –’
‘Or what?’
‘Or else I’ll have you thrown out.’
The potential unpleasantness of this scene was suddenly interrupted by a voice off to the side. ‘Now now, gentlemen, draw it mild.’ Brigstock stood there, smiling from one to the other. As he approached Will, he narrowed his eyes and came to a halt. ‘Don’t I know you, sir?’
Will, breathing heavily, stared back at him. ‘Maitland. We met one another some years ago. I was with Miss Callaway.’
The painter’s frown cleared. ‘Ah, yes – the cricketer!’
‘The man’s too drunk to see a hole in a ladder,’ said Greaves, glowering, then gestured at Connie’s portrait. ‘Says he wants to buy this painting.’
Brigstock chuckled. ‘Nothing wrong with his eyesight, if that’s the one he’s after.’ He turned back to Will. ‘It’s a particular favourite of mine.’
Will bristled at this, and felt his determination redouble. ‘How much do you want for it?’
Brigstock smiled slyly. ‘Now I remember! – the last time we met you had a very decided opinion of my work. Unfathomable daubs!’ He seemed delighted at the memory. ‘It appears you’ve come round to it …’
Will sensed that he was being humoured. ‘So – how much?’
‘I’m flattered by your interest, Mr Maitland,’ he said, and sighed. ‘Alas, Mr Greaves here wasn’t spinning you a line. The picture is not for sale.’
‘Is my money not good enough for you?’ sneered Will, feeling the blood rush to his face.
‘My dear fellow, your money has nothing to do with it. There are very few pictures of mine I’ve ever really loved, but that one of Connie, I should say, is among them. How can one put a price on something one loves?’ It was a reasonable question, but such was Will’s agitated mood that he heard only his impertinent familiarity – Connie, indeed – and his maddening tone of nonchalant regret. Well, he would give him an answer to remember, and taking a step forward he swung a wild fist towards his jaw. Brigstock, too quick for him, swayed out of the line, and before Will could right himself for another try Mr Greaves’s own fist had connected smackingly with his nose. Pain shot through his face like lightning, and the last thing he heard before hitting the floor was Brigstock’s wincing commiseration Oh dear.
* * *
He must have lost consciousness for a few minutes, because when he came round he was sitting outside, propped against the gallery front. The coppery taste of blood was in his mouth, and a headache thumped behind his eyes. He looked up to find Brigstock leaning against the door jamb, smoking; there was sympathy in his gaze, though he seemed to be struggling not to smile.
‘Here,’ said the painter, handing him a white linen handkerchief. ‘You might wish to …’ It was only then Will realised that blood was dripping from his nose. He took the proffered kerchief and tipped his head back, trying to staunch the crimson flow. Passers-by cast pitying looks at him. His wretchedness was complete. A taxi stopped and chugged at the kerb; Brigstock straightened up and stepped over to Will’s semi-recumbent figure.
‘This cab was called for you. Perhaps you could give me your address?’
Will told him in a mumble, and after the painter relayed the information to the cabbie he helped him up from the pavement. Will felt a lurch in his stomach, but succeeded (small mercy) in not disgorging its contents. ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed to slur. ‘I just wanted the painting to – to look at.’
Brigstock, his hand on the car door, turned a rueful face on him. ‘That’s all right, old chap. I’m sorry I coul
dn’t oblige you.’
Will stepped in, and slumped on the seat. He noticed that he was still holding the handkerchief; taking the bloodied rag from his nose he handed it weakly towards its owner, but Brigstock waved the thing away.
‘Keep it,’ he said, closing the cab door and slipping some coins to the driver. Then the car was moving on and the shopfronts of Albemarle Street were sliding past Will’s dulled gaze. As his brain began to clear and the hot humiliation of the afternoon set in, it occurred to him that he hadn’t even been able to make a decent public disgrace of himself.
Connie was occupied in her little office at the Middlesex when she heard a tap on the glass partition, and looked round to see Brigstock beaming at her on the other side. This was a first. She rose and opened the door to him. He was wearing a dove-grey suit of a carelessly expensive cut, a gold pin skewering his silk tie beneath the stiff collar. In his hand was a malacca cane – once an affectation, now a necessity – and under his arm he carried a couple of parcels.
‘Well! You look smart,’ she said, inviting him in. ‘Let me guess. You’re either off to a race meeting – or a wedding.’
‘Neither, actually. I thought if I were to visit Sister Callaway –’ he nodded at Connie’s nameplate on the door ‘– I should make the effort to look presentable.’ Brigstock lowered himself into an armchair, unbuttoned his jacket and raked his gaze about the office. ‘Hmm. Very cosy. Mind if I smoke?’ Without waiting for a reply, he pulled out a cigar, clipped the end and fired it up. She recalled how he had joked about taking up cigars the last time they had met.
‘Rather suits me, d’you not think?’
‘With the beard, you look like our dear late King,’ she said, squinting through the smoke.
‘Good heavens!’ he cried, snatching the cigar from his mouth. ‘Do I really look as ancient as all that?’
Connie, hearing his plaintive tone, took pity. ‘I was referring to your regal bearing, not your age.’
He eyed her narrowly for a moment, then drew his mouth into a sardonic smirk. ‘Cute. Very cute. I ought to know you better than to fish for compliments …’ He had stood up to examine his reflection in the mottled mirror that hung over the washbasin. Connie glanced at her watch.
‘Have you come on a particular errand?’
‘Hm? Ah – the reason for my call,’ he said, turning from the mirror, ‘is this.’ He bent down by the armchair and scooped up one of the two parcels, encased in buff-coloured paper and tied with string. ‘It’s rather belated, but I’d been wondering how I should mark your birthday, and this struck me as appropriate.’ He handed it to her. Connie was taken aback.
‘For me?’
‘None other.’ She stood motionless, until he added, blithely, ‘You might care to open it.’ He watched her as she did so, snipping the string with her desk scissors and then unfolding the layers of wrapping. It was a framed oil, squarish, about twelve inches wide. Connie found herself staring at her own portrait. She had not looked upon it since the Beaufort Gallery exhibition eight years ago.
‘I’m …’ she began, ‘… stunned. This is really too much.’
Brigstock shrugged. ‘Well, I shan’t take it back. Is it something that you – like?’
Connie looked from him back to the painting, and nodded. ‘It is. Very much.’ As she stared she felt her eyes begin to moisten. ‘Thank you.’
He observed her, and said, kindly, ‘I beg your pardon, this cigar seems to be affecting your eyes …’ He crushed it in the ashtray.
‘I was just thinking, the last time I saw this displayed I was with Tam. He admired it, I remember.’
Brigstock nodded. ‘He wasn’t the only one. As a matter of fact, there’s a story attached to this painting that might interest you. Perhaps we could go for a little stroll and I’ll beguile the time with it.’
He waited while she wrapped up the picture again, and they stepped out of her office together.
Out in the middle Will was rediscovering a little of his old form. It was his first knock of the season, and he’d been timing the ball with surprising ease. Perhaps it wasn’t that surprising: the opposition bowling was pretty rank, and their fielding not much better. Batting was easy when the other side couldn’t put you under pressure. No one had said as much, but everyone knew that the standard of county play had suffered a steep decline. The best cricketers of 1914 had been sacrificed to the war; some had returned injured, others had not returned at all. Will had even experienced a small stab of guilt for plundering runs so freely, but what was he to do with these half-volleys and full tosses? Fill your boots, is what Tam would have said. Tam – if only he were here now, backing up at the other end. It was strange how he still thought of him more often than he did of any man he had lost in France.
Flossy clouds drifted across the sunless, pearly-blue horizon. A little breeze ruffled the M—shire flag atop the pavilion. Their slow left-armer had returned for a bowl. With the fielders tiring and his own score on 75, Will realised that this would be the moment to start accelerating. The first delivery was dropped short, and he advanced down the wicket to club the ball back over the bowler’s head for four. As he watched it thunk against the green boundary fence, his eye was distracted by something in the crowd behind long on, a dab of colour that was filament-bright against a stand of greys and browns. It seemed unaccountably familiar to him. Another delivery drifted wide down leg, and Will, stretching forward on one knee, slogged it high over square into the Queens Road Stand. Cheers came from the crowd, and a murmurous excitement at the approach of a hundred. He refocused his gaze towards long on, and now could make out the dab as a hat, a woman’s hat with a flame-coloured band. He raised his eyes to the tall gaunt houses overlooking the pavilion on South Terrace, a favourite target of Tam’s. How many of those windows he had holed in his time!
A moment’s thought decided him. He would try to land a ball through one of them, as a personal salute to Tam. It would remind the crowd of his old friend. A few overs later he found himself again facing the slow left-armer. He skipped down the track to the first ball, swung – and missed completely. A decent wicketkeeper would have stumped him, but decent wicket-keepers were scarce and he grounded his bat. The second ball he hit so sweetly that it seemed about to clear the pavilion, but instead struck a gable and bounced down into the stand. He was finding his range. He had reached 96. A hit out of the ground and the tinkle of breaking glass – that would be the way to bring up his ton … The next ball was quicker, and he failed to move his feet as he launched himself at it. Impetuous, he thought, as the ball flew off his bat, steepling; he had a sense of everyone lifting their gaze as it climbed skywards, a russet speck against the serene blue, and at the moment it touched its zenith he instinctively knew that it wouldn’t go the distance. As it plummeted, so did something in his stomach. The fielder at long off, watching it all the way, had steadied himself, and the ball disappeared into his safely cupped hands. Out.
He kept his head down on the walk back to the pavilion, the ripples of applause in his ears. When he looked up, he saw the woman’s hat again and remembered why it looked familiar: it was very like a hat Connie used to wear, the one he recovered that day at the Savoy. Years ago now. He opened the pavilion gate and mounted the steps, doffing his cap at the old boy who called to him, ‘Capital knock, sir!’ Will smiled. ‘Capital’ was pushing it, but he hadn’t done so badly, first time at the crease in six years. The bowling had been terrible, and he’d flogged it. At least he could still remember how. A desultory chorus of congratulation greeted him in the dressing room. He barely knew his own teammates; most of them were young bloods straight out of school, who treated him with the distant respect owed to a veteran. A veteran – him – at thirty-three. It was no fault of theirs that he had missed the prime of his cricketing life. He knew his reflexes had dulled, and his eye had lost its sharpness. It was entirely possible that this might be his last season for the club. As he washed at one of the sinks, he recalled Tam’s mela
ncholy warning – Don’t get old, Blue, not if you’re a sportsman. Will understood that there was something more to life than cricket. He had found it once, too; but he couldn’t keep it.
Around five thirty he heard a clatter of booted feet on the pavilion steps. Stumps had been drawn. Sitting in a corner with his head draped in a towel, he did not hear the youth sidling up to him.
‘Ahm, Maits?’ The boy’s voice sounded irresolute as to whether he should be addressing a senior player in so familiar a style. Will pulled back his towel and looked up. ‘There’s someone out there asking for you.’
Will nodded his thanks, and hauled himself upright. His legs and back had stiffened since his innings: he really was a veteran. He ambled out of the dressing room in his stockinged feet and into the Priory’s gloomy hallway, and there, through a milling scrum of players and ground staff, he saw the lady in the hat – not, after all, like Connie, but Connie herself, in the flesh. For a few moments they stood as still as two portraits facing one another.
Shaking off her trance of immobility, Connie stepped forward. She offered her hand, and not knowing how to begin said, ‘I was sorry you didn’t get your hundred.’
He gave a shrug. ‘Poor footwork, I’m afraid. It’s always been a fault.’ They exchanged a rueful smile. What on earth was she doing here? Both had registered changes in the other – lines in the skin, a slight tautening around the eyes – but their interest in this sudden renewal of acquaintance eclipsed any dismay they might have felt. Connie saw his eyes glance at the package she carried at her side.
‘I believe this is yours.’ She handed it over, and the sight of its printed trade name – GEORGE LEWIN & CO. – caused him a spasm of cold dread. They were the cricket whites he had bought last week, now irreparably tainted by association. Connie mistook his expression for simple confusion. ‘My friend Brigstock said that you left them by accident in the gallery – at Albemarle Street?’
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