It was late and I only had a stump of candle that gave off very poor light, but I tried to sketch a quick portrait of myself. I managed a reasonable likeness in about fifteen minutes, and then stared at it intensely. I didn’t have a portrait from before to compare it with. I’d always hated the idea of drawing myself and had only ever achieved a miserable caricature, which I’d always torn up. I realized I used to tilt my chin in a rather aggressive manner and often had a pinched line between my eyebrows. This was smoothed out now, which made a lot of difference. My face was still thin but not so taut. It seemed less cocksure, more confident.
However, I felt anything but confident the next Saturday at the prospect of meeting Mr Evandale with Cassie. She’d wailed all Friday at Alouette’s, and Madame herself had told her to attend an emergency dentist on Saturday instead of coming to work. Cassie didn’t try the same tale with Mother, who might well have bound Cassie’s jaw up and marched her off to a dentist herself. She simply told Mother that Philip had begged his aunt to allow him to take Cassie up to London on Saturday morning, to make the most of the shops and the sights, and Madame Alouette was so fond of Cassie that she had agreed just this once.
So Mother understood when, after breakfast, Cassie got herself up in all her green finery. But she frowned at me when she saw that I was wearing Cassie’s grey costume and white blouse.
‘And where are you off to, missy? Mixing with those dreadful suffragettes again? You’re going to get yourself into terrible trouble. All decent folk think those women want horse-whipping. The destruction they’ve caused! All the shop windows broken, policemen and politicians assaulted. Someone’s going to get killed soon, you mark my words.’
‘Someone already has been killed – Emily Davison was trampled to death at Epsom under the King’s horse,’ I declared. ‘And pretty soon some of the poor brave women stuck in prison and tortured with force feeding will die soon too. People say Mrs Pankhurst herself is in danger.’
‘They bring it on themselves with their silly hysterics.’
‘They’re hysterical on our behalf, Mother. They want better rights for women. Once we have the vote, then everything will change.’
‘I wouldn’t vote if you paid me. Women have no business in the polling booths. We know nothing about politics or running the wretched country.’
‘So we need to educate ourselves until we do,’ I insisted passionately yet again. I felt boiling hot in my flannel costume and throttled by the high neck of my blouse.
‘Oh, do stop getting so het up, both of you,’ said Cassie.
‘You’d vote if you had the opportunity, wouldn’t you, Cass?’ I appealed to her.
‘Oh, of course I would. I’d vote for any candidate who was handsome. It seems to be a rule that all politicians are ugly. And then I’d want all the laws changed. I’d have everyone only working one hour a day, and I’d give all women a very generous dress allowance, but all millinery will be extremely expensive so Alouette’s makes five times the profit.’
‘But how could that possibly be economically viable?’ I asked.
‘Oh, you’re such a pain, Opie. I’m not serious. Now do stop getting so agitated. I have to be off now to meet Philip, and you don’t want to be late for your boring old meeting, so let’s say goodbye to Mother now and be on our way.’
I let Cassie hustle me out of the house.
‘Dear goodness!’ she said as we were hurrying down the street. ‘If you start all this suffragette nonsense with Daniel, he’ll tease you unmercifully, I warn you.’
‘It’s not nonsense,’ I said crossly, and proceeded to tell her why women needed the vote until she actually put her hands over her ears as we walked along. But the nearer we got to the railway station where we were to meet Mr Evandale, the less assertive I became.
I didn’t need Cassie to point him out when we got there. He stood idly reading a newspaper, taller and broader than most men, a large soft trilby on his dark unruly hair. He was wearing a greatcoat left unbuttoned and a long purple scarf draped round and round his neck, contrasting vividly with the cherry red of his velvet waistcoat. His clothes were made of soft materials in girlish colours, but he still looked the most masculine man I’d ever seen.
‘Oh my, isn’t he wonderful?’ Cassie breathed proudly.
She went rushing forward and peeped round his newspaper to surprise him. He laughed and took her hand. There was nothing especially intimate about their greeting, and yet somehow it seemed as if they were embracing. I felt myself going pink.
‘Daniel, dear, this is my sister, Opal,’ said Cassie. ‘Opie, this is my Daniel.’
I quivered a little that she should call this man ‘my Daniel’. It was clear that they were far more than friends.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Opal. The child wonder who has set the whole of Fairy Glen a-twittering with the wonder of her fairy designs,’ said Mr Evandale.
I couldn’t decide if he was being serious or sarcastic. I felt even more gauche than usual, stuck out my hand stiffly, and then recoiled at the warmth and vigour of his grasp as we shook hands.
‘Cassie has told me so much about her brilliant little sister,’ he said.
‘I am hardly brilliant,’ I said gruffly.
‘Yes you are,’ said Cassie. ‘My Lord, you should have heard her this morning, Daniel, sounding off about women’s suffrage and all sorts of dreary political stuff until I thought I should scream.’
‘Really, Opal? Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me too while we journey up to London,’ he suggested.
‘Perhaps not,’ I said, because even I could see that this would not be sensible.
The journey took less than an hour, but it seemed interminable. Mr Evandale was determined to draw me out, asking me all sorts of questions, seeming to flatter me – but I became more and more awkwardly monosyllabic.
‘Don’t be shy, Opie,’ Cassie said, trying to encourage me. She was certainly the opposite of shy. Now that we were in an enclosed carriage, just the three of us, she snuggled up close to Daniel Evandale, tucking her hand under his arm and gazing up at him adoringly. He smiled at her every now and then, sometimes patting her absentmindedly, as if she were a little lapdog. I would have found such an attitude deeply offensive, but Cassie was clearly in seventh heaven.
I was starting to wish I had never agreed to come. I even hatched a wild plan to push off by myself when we reached Waterloo, but Mr Evandale swept Cassie and me into a cab. This was a novelty I didn’t want to miss. It felt so grand to be swooping along through the busy traffic to Trafalgar Square. I’d never been there before, though I’d seen pictures of the huge Landseer lions and Nelson on his column. Little urchins were swarming all over the lions. It looked such fun that I longed to lift up my hobbling skirts and join them, but of course I refrained.
There were vast flocks of pigeons hopping and fluttering about the square. An old man was selling bags of birdseed to the children at a penny a time. Mr Evandale saw me looking at them and laughed. He handed me a penny from his trouser pocket.
‘You don’t want to feed those nasty flappy things, do you?’ said Cassie. ‘Aren’t you afraid of getting pecked?’
‘They’re not eagles, Cassie,’ I said.
I took great delight in feeding the birds. I didn’t have to encourage them at all. They positively mobbed me the moment they saw the bag in my hand. It was wonderful when their little claws fastened confidently on my shoulders and their soft wings brushed my face. One even perched on top of my head, artistically posing on my hat, a living decoration to my grey outfit.
‘Mind it doesn’t mess on that hat!’ said Cassie, shuddering. ‘It’s mine, remember.’
‘Anyone would think you didn’t like birds, Cassie,’ said Mr Evandale.
‘I don’t mind pretty coloured ones in cages,’ she replied.
We looked at each other, remembering poor lost Billy and Happy Days. My eyes filled with tears, and Cassie’s did too.
‘Come, girls – the
birds are full to bursting now,’ Mr Evandale said gently, and he steered us towards the gallery. We hadn’t said a word. I was surprised by his sensitivity. Perhaps he wasn’t quite such a bad man after all. We went up the steps. The gallery was extraordinarily crowded, which was a surprise. I had imagined us drifting through empty rooms.
‘Shall we work our way through the paintings chronologically from the beginning, or shall we dart about at random, picking out favourites?’ said Mr Evandale.
‘Chronologically,’ I said.
‘Dart about,’ Cassie said simultaneously. ‘And not too many favourites.’
‘It’s Opal’s treat,’ Mr Evandale pointed out. ‘I think we shall begin at the beginning. But after an hour or so I shall take you off for a cup of tea and a bun, Cassie. How about that?’
‘I’ve got to look at paintings for a whole hour?’ Cassie complained. She sighed as we entered the north vestibule to start with the early Italian paintings.
I stared in wonder at the glowing pinks and golds and scarlets and the brilliant lapis blue. I had a well-thumbed book about the paintings in the National Gallery, with over seven hundred reproductions, but they were all in black and white.
I wanted to stand and marvel at each one. But everyone strolled past at a measured pace. I tried to do the same, but when I came across the Duccio Madonna in the second room, I stood rooted to the spot. I wouldn’t budge even when Cassie poked and pulled at me.
‘Do you like her?’ asked Mr Evandale.
I nodded, for once speechless.
‘She is beautiful, isn’t she,’ he agreed.
‘No she’s not!’ said Cassie impatiently. ‘Her face is all greeny and isn’t pretty at all. And she’s far too big. That baby’s out of proportion and the people are the wrong size. It doesn’t look real.’
‘It’s not trying to look real. The early Italian painters wanted to show Heaven in all its golden glory,’ said Mr Evandale. Right then I could have kissed him.
‘She is beautiful, Cassie. The baby is Christ, so He’s very magical. He’s a tiny baby and yet He’s already all-powerful. I love the way He’s lifting her veil so tenderly and reaching up to stroke her face,’ I said.
‘I don’t know why you’re going so googly over the baby. You won’t go near any of Mother’s,’ said Cassie. She flounced off, and Mr Evandale raised his eyebrows at me.
‘I’ll have to find paintings more to Cassie’s taste or she’ll make our visit very difficult,’ he said.
None of the early Italians pleased her, though she conceded that the Crivelli Madonnas were ‘more like it’, but she took issue with their long delicate hands. I marvelled at Crivelli’s enormous altarpiece, embellished here and there with real jewels. I wondered if this might be a good idea for Fairy Glen gift boxes, maybe at Christmas. A new design entirely – a dark night with a fairy Father Christmas flying through the air with sacks of toys in his sled and silvery enamel stars glittering in the sky.
‘That Virgin’s fingers are too long too,’ Cassie said dismissively. ‘And who are all the people?’
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Mr Evandale, as if we were at a party. ‘St Peter, with his key, St John the Baptist, St Catherine of Alexandria, St Dominic, St Andrew, St Stephen with the stones of his martyrdom embedded in his head, and St Thomas Aquinas. And up on the top tier I see St Jerome, the Archangel Michael stamping on a dragon, St Peter the martyr, and there’s dear little St Lucy carrying her plate.’
‘What are those weird things on the plate?’ Cassie asked.
‘Her eyes, my dear.’
‘Her eyes?’
‘She plucked them out with her own hands and sent them to a love-struck youth,’ I said, proud that I’d read about her in my art book.
‘How truly disgusting. These fanatical religious paintings are too bizarre for me. Don’t they ever paint anything else?’
‘Come, Cassie, we’ll find you some mythological goddesses. They might be more to your taste,’ said Mr Evandale.
We both blinked at Bronzino’s Allegory with Venus and Cupid. I was determined to be sophisticated when it came to nudes, but this painting had an extraordinary amount of pearly white flesh. Venus and Cupid and Folly seemed to be flaunting it for all they were worth. Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne was equally compelling, with Bacchus seemingly leaping straight out of the painting, his pink robe flying out behind and practically exposing him.
‘Look what you can see!’ Cassie whispered.
I glared at her, lost in the poetry of the picture, but I couldn’t stop myself peering. It wasn’t very instructive.
Mr Evandale took Cassie off for her bun, as promised. I was hungry too, but I couldn’t bear to waste a minute away from the paintings. I wandered around by myself in a daze, my eyes blurring now, colours whirling in my brain like a child’s kaleidoscope. I noted every line and variation of angel’s wing so that I could appropriate them for my fairies. I took comfort from the Early Flemish paintings because their women were as thin and pale and serious as me.
‘Which is your favourite?’ Mr Evandale asked, when they found me eventually.
‘I can’t say. I love so many,’ I said helplessly.
‘I’ll show you mine,’ he said. ‘It’s a Venus like no other.’
‘We’ve seen enough Venuses already,’ Cassie moaned. ‘I’m tired of all these painted ladies.’
‘This one’s like real flesh and blood,’ said Mr Evandale. ‘She’s a beauty.’
Cassie pouted a little. ‘Is she more beautiful than my portrait?’ she asked him coyly.
‘Oh, Cass, I’m a fine jobbing painter but I’m no match for Velázquez,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’
He led us to the Spanish paintings, and there she was, with a little crowd gathered in awe – mostly gentlemen. Mr Evandale was right. It seemed as if there were a real young woman lying there on her blue-grey silk sheet. She was calmly admiring herself in the mirror, showing us her smooth white back, her tiny waist, and her sensuous curves.
‘I suppose she is beautiful,’ Cassie said grudgingly. ‘But don’t you prefer a slightly fuller figure, Daniel?’
He laughed. ‘Possibly. I daren’t reply otherwise.’
‘The painting’s very fine, but I prefer your portrait of me,’ Cassie told him.
‘Then perhaps some dolt will pay forty-five thousand pounds for my painting,’ he said. ‘That’s what the nation paid to buy the Rokeby Venus.’
‘Forty-five thousand?’
‘And worth every penny. What do you say, Opal?’
I nodded, scarcely able to breathe. I couldn’t stop gazing at the painting, taking in all the sweeps and curves. It seemed astonishing that a man could paint a picture of a young girl more than two hundred and fifty years ago, a girl long since crumbled into dust, yet here she was, young and fresh and glowing, still able to attract the full attention of everyone in the room.
‘It’s just a painting,’ said Cassie. She paused. ‘Will your portraits be worth that much one day, Daniel?’
‘Oh, Cassie, how I wish it were so,’ he said.
‘Is it lunch time yet?’ she asked hopefully.
‘We’ve only recently fed you two enormous currant buns. You’ll burgeon into a Rubens if you’re not careful!’
I was rather hoping that Mr Evandale would take us to a hotel. I was very keen to sample oysters and champagne. He took us to a chophouse instead, a much more prosaic choice, but I enjoyed my two pork chops with apple sauce, and then we all had golden syrup steamed pudding. I couldn’t manage more than a mouthful of mine as I was so full of chops.
I’d hoped that we would return, refreshed, to the National Gallery, but Cassie objected fiercely.
‘Let us go to all the department stores in Oxford Street,’ she suggested, but this made Mr Evandale groan.
‘I have a better idea,’ he said, and he hailed a cab.
He took us to the Zoological Gardens. This proved to be an utterly splendid choice. We were all enchanted by the
antics of the monkeys and the comical black and white penguins. We thrilled at the roar of the lions and tigers, though Cassie fanned herself ostentatiously, saying she couldn’t bear the smell. Mr Evandale stumped up the money for Cassie and me to have a ride on Jumbo the elephant, though this was really designed for children. We certainly shrieked like little girls as the great beast lumbered to his feet and started plodding along while we perched precariously on a little seat on his back.
It was not properly spring, but the sun was warm and we sat in deckchairs in Regent’s Park to ease our aching feet. Mr Evandale took out his sketchbook and started doing a quick pencil portrait of both of us. Cassie immediately struck a pose, throwing up her arm and smiling enigmatically. I felt stiff and self-conscious beside her and couldn’t stop fidgeting.
‘Here, Opal, you draw too,’ he said, tearing out several pages of his sketchbook for me.
I tried to draw my sister too, but it was inhibiting after seeing so many masterpieces. I took inspiration from the Zoological Gardens instead and drew Cassie as a sleepy lioness, her hair a magnificent mane, her great paws emerging incongruously from the cuffs of her dress. She was smiling, as if she’d just dined on an antelope and several impala.
Cassie was irritated when she saw what I’d done, but Mr Evandale roared with laughter.
‘Yours is far better than my conventional scribble. It’s Cassie, right down to the last whisker.’
‘I don’t have whiskers! Honestly, how you do plague a girl,’ said Cassie, pretending to be cross, but she couldn’t help simpering at him even so.
We had another train carriage to ourselves on the way home. Cassie fell asleep, snuggled against Mr Evandale’s shoulder. He offered to get us a cab from the station, but we decided to walk instead. I shook his hand and thanked him fervently. Cassie gave him a bold kiss on the lips right in front of me. Then we walked off arm in arm.
‘SO WHAT DID you think of him? Isn’t he just the most wonderful man ever? He’s got such style, hasn’t he? And he knows so much, and he has such a wicked sense of humour. He knows exactly how to please a girl, don’t you think? And he’s so youthful, for all that he’s so old. Don’t you think so yourself? Do you think he really, really cares for me? Opie, do say!’ said Cassie in a rush.
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