The Reaping

by Bernard Taylor

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it nice?’

  The conversation was developing into the familiar question-and-answer pattern which I always felt was his means of keeping a close contact. It ended with Em bringing in the tea.

  Over the rim of the cup I looked at my sister as she settled back against the cushions of the sofa. I don’t know how I would have managed without Em. Years ago, following her divorce, she had come to work for me in the shop, living in the flat above it. But then, after the death of Elizabeth, my wife, she had moved into the house with me and the children, quietly taking over so many of the responsibilities that had been left unclaimed. Not long afterwards—and so willingly at my suggestion—she had given up the shop altogether.

  Now where the children were concerned there was no doubt at all that Em was there to stay; they treated her as much of a fixture as they treated each other and me. We knew, though, Em and I, that the situation could change. It was changing. Just before Christmas Em had met Ivor, a gentle, grey-haired assistant bank-manager from Croydon, and their attachment had been steadily growing. And months before that, of course, I had met Ilona. Now both Em and I were having to reconsider the patterns of our existence. Change for both of us could be on the cards. We might remarry. Though I had to admit that of the two relationships Em’s was running by far the more smoothly.

  She now sat trying to re-attach a loose wheel to a small space-age car of Simeon’s while he stood at her elbow intently watching.

  She was forty-nine—six years older than I. She didn’t look her age, though, I thought. Her body might have thickened somewhat but her hair was still rich and dark, her hazel eyes still youthful and clear. Above all, though, her attractiveness for me came from her warmth; a softness and gentleness that had always been so much a part of her; yet qualities born of strength; she had proved that often enough over the years. I could only applaud the widowed assistant bank-manager’s taste.

  ‘There . . .’ she handed the repaired car back to Simeon and he knelt and tested it on the carpet. ‘And the next time it goes wrong ask your father to fix it,’ she added. ‘He gets out of too much by insisting that he’s useless at anything mechanical.’

  As Simeon wandered away out of the room Em asked me whether my pictures were ready to be taken to the theatre. I told her they were. Then she asked whether I knew yet when Ilona was returning from France.

  ‘I should think it would be another week yet,’ I said. ‘I just wish she’d give the bloody job up. It’s such a fly-by-night kind of existence, isn’t it? Here today and gone tomorrow. I can’t even begin to understand its attractions. Or even that whole scene—everything connected with the film and television industry. It all seems just too far removed from—reality.’

  ‘Only to you,’ Em said, ‘—but that’s just because you’re not interested.’

  I shook my head. ‘I never have been. That’s why we hardly ever talk about it. I just can’t—relate to it.’

  ‘So what would you like her to do instead?’

  ‘Who knows . . . I suppose it makes as much sense as anything else—in the long run. I suppose I get mad because of what it does—keeping her moving around all the time.’

  There was a little silence then Em said:

  ‘How do you feel about things?—are they going any better?’

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘I can’t really tell,’ I said. I told her about the picture-postcard I’d received that morning, my disappointment. ‘Perhaps I’m expecting too much . . .’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll work out all right,’ she said.

  ‘I hope so. Things certainly can’t stay as they are.’

  My relationship with Ilona seemed to have no stillness about it. It seemed to be moving all the time—and I didn’t like to think about the direction it might be taking. Our coming holiday together, I felt sure, would be the turning point; everything would be made clear then . . .

  Em, as if reading my thoughts, said: ‘You wait until the two of you get away together on your own. You’ll get things sorted out then.’

  Yes. It would be a make-or-break time, I was certain.

  But even so, there were two months to go before then; anything could happen in that time.

  Chapter Two

  Soon after Julia arrived home we had dinner and afterwards I got the Citroën out of the garage. With Julia sitting beside me I drove up to the High Road and parked around the corner, not far from the shop. Up in the studio I briefly surveyed the pictures once more and then picked up the two smaller ones, the still-lifes. I’d pack them together, I decided.

  Julia, having spoken a little of her forthcoming holiday with her friend, went on to give me a run-down on her friend’s record collection; it seemed to be made up of stuff by groups with strange-sounding names I’d never even heard of. I realized just how quickly now she was growing up.

  A tall girl for her age, her hair was as fair as Simeon’s and fell down loose and flowing past her shoulders. The effect was not as neat as with the plaits she’d worn till lately, but in her own eyes it was a vast improvement on such a style. She had the same blue eyes as her mother, but her bone structure owed much to the Rigby side of the family. On her, though, I was glad to see, it emerged—as with Simeon—with a promise of refinement.

  Now as I wrapped the paintings she wandered around the studio (it had once been Em’s sitting room) peering into the various jars and tins, and studying the pictures that crowded the space. Practically the only other times she had been there were on those occasions when she’d sat for me. She’d proved to be one of the most restless of models, though, so those occasions had been few.

  ‘Mummy . . .’

  I heard her say the word in a small, surprised little voice. Looking around I saw her crouching, a couple of canvases leaning against her knee. Her eyes were fixed on one that leant against the wall in front of her. It was one that had come from several batches of old works that I’d kept tied in bundles and shelved, unlooked-at, for several years. It was only recently that, out of curiosity, I had taken two or three of the bundles down, dusted them off and glanced through them.

  I watched now as Julia leaned forward, her blonde hair hanging down like a curtain, hiding her face. She was the one of all my children who constantly filled me with surprise—because she was female, I supposed. Who would have thought that I should have had only one daughter among so many sons? But there, we Rigbys had always sired more male children.

  Putting the picture-wrapping aside I went over to her and looked down past her head at the portrait of Elizabeth. It was not by any means a good painting, but nevertheless there she was. There was the smooth cheek and the blue eyes, their expression hinting at the warmth and humour that had always marked them in life; there too was the thick fair hair, so like that of her daughter who now gazed at her image.

  My glance went back to Julia. I could see her face now, but I detected no sign of distress. She was quiet, subdued, yes, but she didn’t seem inordinately moved. A sign, I thought, that she was over the tragedy. And it had been that. I could remember only too clearly the effect it had had upon myself; how it had affected my children I could only guess at . . .

  ‘She looks so . . . young,’ Julia said, and then: ‘Daddy, I’ve never seen this picture of her before.’

  ‘No. She was very young then. It’s an old painting. Done before you were born. I only recently came across it. All those there—’ I indicated the many other pictures stacked in groups, ‘are old ones. From my student days. They’ve been packed away for ages.’ I hovered above her for a while longer and then moved back to get on with my work. A few seconds later her voice came again.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  This was a picture I had forgotten had even existed. Recognizing it I moved closer. It was of a slightly younger woman, no more than in her early twenties. She wore a
white blouse and blue jeans and had long red hair and green eyes. I found myself gazing at the portrait in a kind of awe.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ I asked.

  ‘It was here—in another bundle at the back. Who is she?’

  ‘Just a girl I used to know. A long time ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where? In Brighton as I recall. Yes—Brighton.’

  ‘We’ve been there—Brighton. What’s her name?’

  ‘. . . Rosalind.’

  ‘That’s a nice name. Rosalind what?’

  After a moment’s thought I had to admit that I couldn’t remember. Julia then said:

  ‘Did you know her before you knew Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, some time before.’

  ‘And wouldn’t she marry you—Rosalind?’

  ‘Marry me?’ I grinned. ‘The question never came up.’

  ‘Didn’t you want to marry her?’

  All the questions. ‘It never occurred to me. We didn’t know each other for very long.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Hey, we’d better get a move on or we’ll never get to the theatre in time.’

  As I started to turn away she asked:

  ‘Are you going to marry Ilona?’

  So was that what all the questions about marriage had been leading up to? She’d had no real interest at all in the long-departed Rosalind; the focus all along had been on Ilona. I realized I wasn’t prepared for the question. Instead of answering, I said:

  ‘Do you like Ilona?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she’s a lot of fun.’ She paused for a moment then asked again: ‘Do you think you’ll marry her?’

  I supposed that a preoccupation with marriage and love could be a part of her growing up, of her increasing awareness. The question now, though, was too close.

  ‘I’ll have to give it some thought,’ I said and turned back to the task of packing the pictures.

  When I’d secured the last knot I handed her the smallest of the three packages, flicked off the lights and followed her down the stairs and out into the street.

  * * *

  On Thursday morning I received a card from the chairman of the exhibition committee telling me that all four of my paintings had been accepted and would form part of the exhibition that was to open on the following Saturday. When Saturday came I left the shop in the afternoon and went along to see what the show—and my paintings—looked like. There, surrounded by the other viewers I stood in the foyer of the new theatre and looked around me.

  The pictures had been hung on the walls and on screens, and whoever had done the hanging hadn’t had much idea or experience. Far too many pictures had been displayed and they’d been packed into the available space with too little room between them and too little thought as to the general appearance.

  Looking at my own pictures my spirits were not lifted in any way either. Apart from being as hemmed in as were the rest of the works there my paintings appeared to have been given the worst possible place in the whole show. There was so much light reflecting from the canvases that it was necessary to stand to one side and look at them from an oblique angle to get even a half-reasonable idea of what they were like.

  My greatest disappointment, though, came from the company in which my pictures were hung.

  The space on the right of the area allotted to mine boasted a still-life of a misshapen jug and two bilious-­looking apples with white, glistening highlights. Below that was a badly composed landscape replete with purple shadows and trees that defied specification. Over on the left were two truly horrendous portraits. The rest of the stuff on display was, on the whole, no better.

  I left and went back to the shop.

  Later, when I’d closed up and the others had all gone I sat on a stool at one of the counters and looked around me.

  Was this, here, I asked myself, what I had studied for? Was this what my parents had worked and saved for?—to send me, their youngest son, to art school so that I could end up serving in a shop? All that promise I’d shown, leading to my years at the Slade; what did it count for now?

  When I’d married Elizabeth I’d been so full of plans as to how I’d provide a good life through my work as a painter. But it hadn’t happened. Almost at once she had become pregnant and the time for risks was over. So, scraping together what capital we could, we had bought the shop. It was meant to be only a temporary measure; after a time, I was determined, I’d get back to my real work. But that hadn’t happened either. The other children had come along while at the same time the shop went from strength to strength, developing into the very profitable concern it now was and bringing in an income that allowed me to run a large, comfortable home and send my children to decent schools. While that had happened the artistic ambitions I’d nursed were relegated to the sidelines. I’d still kept the dream, though. Someday, I would tell myself . . . someday . . .

  But now, I realized, it was too late. That someday had come and gone. My visit to the art exhibition had made me aware of that. I’d missed out and now it was too late to do anything about it.

  I mentally shook myself. I had too many responsibilities for the luxury of self-pity, and besides, it had all come down to a matter of my choice—and I’d long since opted to keep to the safe way. I had some nerve, I thought, questioning Ilona’s choice of career.

  * * *

  Ilona telephoned me that evening.

  Beyond the sound of her low, clear voice I could hear music and the clamour of laughter and talking. She was calling, she said, from a small café just outside of Boulogne.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘How did what go?’

  ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ she said, ‘—there’s such a noise in here.’

  ‘I said: How did what go?’

  ‘The exhibition. It opened today, didn’t it? They did show some of your paintings, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they showed them.’

  ‘—You don’t sound too happy about it.’

  ‘It was a complete waste of time.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that.—What was the rest of the stuff like?’

  ‘It was rubbish. Ah, but what does it matter?’

  ‘It does matter,’ she said earnestly. ‘You’re a very talented painter; of course it matters.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I asked her then when she was coming back. She replied that a few more days should see the whole thing finished.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘—give me a number where I can reach you in the meantime . . .’

  She gave a hopeless-sounding sigh and said, ‘Oh, God, I wish I could. But this itinerary is all up the creek, and I can’t seem to get a straight answer on it from anybody.’ She paused and then added warmly: ‘Be patient, Tom, just a while longer. I’ll see you very soon.’

  And I had to be content with that.

  * * *

  On working days I hardly ever went home for lunch but instead went up to my studio where I worked at my painting and ate the cold lunch that Em prepared for me. On that Monday following the opening of the exhibition, though, I simply read my paper while I ate my cold chicken and salad. My paints and palette lay untouched next to my easel.

  I had finished eating and was just washing my hands when Arthur came up to say I was wanted on the phone. Going down into the office at the back of the shop I took up the receiver, said hello and then heard a woman’s voice asking if this was Mr. Rigby speaking. I told her it was.

  ‘Mr. Rigby,’ she said, ‘please excuse me for calling you like this, but I was wondering whether I could see you—meet you at some time . . .’

  ‘Well, in what connection . . . ?’

  ‘Your paintings,’ she said. ‘I happened to see the exhibition at the new theatre. They told me where
I could contact you.’ She paused. ‘You’re a very talented man.’

  ‘. . . Thank you . . .’

  ‘Look, why don’t I get to the point,’ she said briskly. ‘What I want to do is commission a portrait from you. Would you be interested? Do you accept commissions? Of course I realize how busy you must be—but I would be grateful if you’d at least consider it.’

  I told her I’d be glad to consider it. She went on then to tell me that she was Mrs. Ann Weldon, and that she was up in London on business from the West Country and had to return there the following afternoon.

  ‘Do you think it would be possible for us to meet?’ she asked, ‘—before I go and catch my train?’

  Yes, I told her, I should think it would.

  Chapter Three

  In the Fountain restaurant of Fortnum and Mason’s I took a seat at one of the white-clothed tables and looked around. I could see no one there answering to the description Mrs. Weldon had given of herself. With the warmth of the day my rather heavy brown sports jacket was a bad choice; but there, as I’d told her I’d be wearing it there wasn’t much I could do about it now. I was just debating whether or not to remove my tie and loosen my collar when I heard a woman’s voice beside me.

  ‘Mr. Rigby . . . ? I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

  ‘No, no, not at all . . .’ I stood up and took the hand she offered me.

  She was of medium height, inclining to plumpness, but nevertheless possessing a kind of homely grace. I placed her somewhere in her mid-fifties. Her hair was greying, but it only seemed to accentuate the softness in her round, pink face with its small nose, bright blue eyes and warm smile. She had a look, I thought, that was essentially maternal; a look added to by the quiet blue of the dress she wore. Her clothes, though obviously of good quality, were worn with a distinct air of casualness—as if she wasn’t much concerned with her appearance. I noticed that the dark bow at her throat had worked loose and threatened collapse, while one of the small white buttons on her right cuff was hanging by a thread.

  As we sat down she said: ‘We’ll order coffee, shall we? Then we’ll have a chat.’